


evenings

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>evenings with Jaime and Brienne in modern day London and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Eve

She closed the door softly behind her, leaning against it in relief at the sudden quietness the room offered from the Christmas Eve party going on. She took a moment to look about her. There must have been hundreds of books on the shelves that ran around three high walls, though the furthest had glass doors that led into the garden, dark against the flickering flames in the stone fireplace between them. The deep ruby-red carpet and large soft sofas seemed to soak up any noise; she could hear herself breathing.  Taking hushed steps, she trailed her fingers over the books’ spines, her head tilted to catch their titles. So many books. She didn’t envy anything very much these days, but a library like this made her jealous. Very jealous. She took down a particularly beautiful book. She traced the gold lettering of _Arthurian Myths and Legends_ with a gentle finger. She suddenly felt very young, remembering how her father had read to her at bedtime. It was always her favourite type of story into which she could escape and be free for a few moments. She shut it abruptly. _No good reminiscing_ , she thought.

She was about to put it back when there was a considerable thump on the door. A second later, it was wrenched open and then banged shut behind a tall, blonde man. She stood stock still.

Jaime Lannister was pulling at his tie in frustration before he spotted her.

“Christ, make a habit of lurking in shadows do you? Well, I mean- I can see why. You nearly gave me a heart attack but I’d rather die looking at a pretty face.”

Without waiting for her reply, he stalked across the room to a cabinet.

She reddened at his insults and at his discovery of her. “Really sorry. I was just- I was looking…” she petered out. She couldn’t lie at the best of times, especially when caught red handed. “I just wanted to escape the party. I best go.”

He glanced at her but she was already carefully replacing the book. He hesitated for a moment and then reached for a second glass.

“Drink?” He held out a large whiskey. “I’m here for the same reason.”

She looked at him suspiciously. She didn’t move towards the door nor reach for the drink. “Oh, I- I mean- but aren’t you—“ she spluttered.

“Being a Lannister doesn’t mean I can stand these damnable things.” His voice was full of venom, and she watched him take a large gulp of his drink.

“No, I should really go—“

“I thought you were Brienne Tarth, not Cinderella? Hmm, a wench rushing home to her father before midnight? Perhaps. Definitely not going to find any glass slippers to fit you though.”

She gaped momentarily at his words. She clenched her hands, feeling her nails dig into her palms.

“You only had to say if you wanted to be alone.”

“Wench—“

“My name is Brienne,” she shot back. Without taking a breath, she continued. “You can laugh at me all you like but I prefer not to hear it, if it’s all the same with you. I don’t even know why I was invited, apart from providing a source of ridicule.”

“You came though didn’t you, wench?” He slammed her drink down, making the amber liquid slosh over the rim. They watched it for a moment before turning towards each other again. He looked furious, but then so was she.

“It would be discourteous to turn it down. Unlike some, I believe in being polite,” she retorted through gritted teeth. She didn’t say that she had no better place to be on the day before Christmas.

“You’re not being very polite now.” A smirk had crawled onto his lips, matching his cruel words. “Should I be ready for a punch? Looks like you would give a killer right hook, wench.” He drawled the last word, knowing the taunt would strike her hard.

She shook her head, backing up towards the door. “I don’t need this. Not from you.” She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Not from you, someone who kills their—”

There was a silence between the two as they stared at each other, only a step apart. She watched as his blazing eyes suddenly dimmed, the faint lines around them grow deeper. She felt oddly like a bird of prey, dispatching its dinner. Without a word said, he turned away and filled up his glass again. It was her moment to escape, if she wanted to. But something made her hesitate.   _Damn herself for caring._

“Look. You had no right to be so bloody rude to me. But-but I’m sorry-it was wrong of me to bring it up. I should know better than listen to gossips.” She was speaking to his back, but his stillness told her he was listening. “I don’t like parties, but I don’t want to go back to my empty flat either. Then I found this beautiful room and thought I could just curl up with a book for a few hours and not be missed.” She almost said this to herself, a faint acknowledgement that her plans never worked out. “I’ll go.”

“Stay if you like.” He turned to her. His offer unsettled her: not only did she find it much more difficult to hold his gaze when they weren’t having a blazing row, but she had not expected him to ever speak to her again. It was well known that bringing up that particular topic was well out of bounds if you didn’t want your name sullied and immediate exile from their social circle. She wouldn’t have even dared mention it, but she had been _so_ riled.

She narrowed her eyes, taking a moment to judge the situation. Not that that was much use since he was impossible to read. He seemed to shrug off her delayed response; instead he went to the bookshelf, picked out the book she had been looking at and put that and the drink on a small table next to an armchair. She watched this small act with faint astonishment. He smiled wryly at her confused look.  He tapped the back of the chair with his long fingers once, twice and then took the chair opposite, looking deep into his glass.

She thought about escaping for a second time. But yet again, something made her stop. She found herself cradling the glass between her hands, not quite sure how she got there. She took a small sip but it made her wrinkle her nose at its bitter taste.

“That’s twenty-five year old malt you’re turning your crooked nose up at, you know.”

She pursed her lips, muttering a sarcastic _sorry_.

The logs in the fire popped and shifted, making Jaime look up from his glass. He sighed heavily. “You know, the truth is always one thing, but in a way it’s the other thing, the gossip, that counts. It shows where people’s hearts lie.”

She looked at him. She wondered if he knew he was used as a warning example to the next generation of officers. She remembered that day at Sandhurst clearly; sitting solemnly at desks while some stuffy colonel told them of how Major Jaime Lannister DSO, well respected and tipped for great things until then, had suddenly snapped in Northern Ireland and turned on his commanding officer, shooting him at point blank range. She remembered the droning voice warning them of what could happen if they didn’t follow orders, if they didn’t understand the whole situation, if-if-if. She had flushed then, knowing that their families mixed socially. She hadn’t wanted anyone to find out; she didn’t want to be tainted by his ruined reputation.

“You survived though, didn’t you?” It came out harsher than she expected; but he _had_ done better than anyone thought he could.

“After a fashion.”

She let out an annoyed breath and leant forward. “Oh please. You hardly ended up in the gutter did you? A demotion and ceremonial duties is nothing compared to the court martial, prison sentence and dishonourable discharge you could have—“ _should have_ “—had.” She watched his fingers tighten round his glass. She was being far too blunt for her own good, but he wasn’t her friend. She had absolutely no reason to be nice.

“You have no idea, wench,” he said, resigned. He didn’t look up.

“No? I’m an officer too, remember? I’ve done a tour, I know it gets— but it seems to me that you don’t accept the fact that you did something wrong. I don’t see any regret.” She stood quickly, but before she could head for the door, he grabbed her wrist. 

“I did what I had to do.”

She held his gaze for a moment. There was a wildness, a desperateness to his green eyes; was he searching for recognition, an answer, forgiveness? She didn’t know. His grip loosened and she dashed for the door. 


	2. New Year's Eve

It wasn’t exciting, it wasn’t sociable but it was exactly how she wanted to spend her New Year’s Eve; the popcorn was ready, her favourite film was all set and she was just about to stretch out on her sofa when there was a loud banging on her door. Cursing under her breath, she opened it to find Jaime leaning on the doorpost, arm swept over his face. He was wearing a long, grey-tweed coat and a bright red scarf draped slovenly around his neck. He looked elegant, the opposite of her overlarge sweater and pyjama bottoms.

He turned to her, grinning. The light from the corridor flashed in his eyes.  “Ahh, how did I know this wench would be at home on New Year’s Eve? I should have made a bet and added to my fortunes.”

She crossed her arms, barring the way in. “How did you find me?” she snapped, un-amused by his laughing face. Few people knew she had a flat for when she was home on leave. Fewer people still knew where it was.

“Come now, I have my sources.” He tapped the side of his nose, still smiling.

“Well, you are certainly not coming in.”

“Full of a sense of duty then wench, but no charity?”

“You don’t need my charity. And stop calling me that.”

He brought his other arm round and showed her a bottle of red wine. “I come bearing gifts?”

She looked at it and then to him, puzzled. “But I don’t understand why you’re here?”

The smile slid off his face and he shrugged. “You know my feelings on parties. And we have unfinished business, wench.” Their conversation had played round and round in his head until he could stand it no longer.

“I said I was sorry.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve already said it too many times. It’s not that-I just-Christ, just let me in, will you? It’s brass monkeys out here.”

She sighed dramatically and stood aside. “Don’t touch anything.” He gave a look, handed over the wine and stepped over the threshold. He strode into her living room and gazed around interestedly. He didn’t know her very well at all, but it was all as he expected. It wasn’t entirely tidy; piles of books tottered precariously and a few mugs were scattered on the surfaces. There was a hockey stick and a sabre sword in a corner and a number of sports trophies acted as bookends. Photos lined the walls; ones from school, already the tallest in the gaggle of girls. A series of action shots from a muddy hockey field; a fist raised in joy at the end of a pool; a blur of black and white after winning a point in fencing. Then her graduation photos – from university where she looked stern and then a couple from Sandhurst, one where she looked unbelievably proud in her cap and smart dress uniform and a one taken unobserved, laughing and happy with several men, arms round each other . He frowned as he tried to remember where the photos of his own day were.

There was an awkward cough behind him and he turned. She was blushing at his close attention of her life on the wall, and she handed over a glass.

“Well, here’s to the next year?” he said, tipping the glass towards her.

“I suppose.”

“You know, it’s bad luck not to catch the eye of the man who gives the toast.”

She worried her lip for a second and then looked up.

Her face was not a great deal to look at; it was too broad to be considered womanly, her nose and teeth were crooked, and the freckles were in constant competition with her blushes. But her eyes were large and open and the most astonishing blue. Flickers of unease and awkwardness and suspicion ran across them but they held his gaze. He clinked her glass softly and then her gaze wavered and disappeared again like clouds rushing over to cover the sun.

“What do you want, Jaime?” she asked.

He put down the glass and took off his coat, ignoring the daggers she gave him as he sat on the sofa.

“For a wench who is spectacularly bad at talking to anyone without nearly imploding, you had a fair whack at me a week ago.”

She pursed her lips, glad she was looking down at him. “Brienne. It’s Brienne. And I _can_ speak to people, I lead my men don’t I?”

“Ahh, yes. I saw your Mention In Despatches. Congratulations.”

She shrugged, half in embarrassment and half in annoyance at him avoiding her question. “Thank you, but don’t think your flattery with work with me.”

“No fear there, wench,” he guffawed. “I have no intention of flattery, not with you.”

“I thought you were horrible because you were drunk. Now I see it’s just your character,” she retorted, scowling at him.

“Only teases, wench. Some people find it charming.”

“Then they must be either stupid or trying to gain favour with you. Or your father.”

His face hardened. “They would have no luck getting to my father through me. I’m a constant disappointment.”

She cocked her head. “Heir? Brave soldier son? Seems hardly likely.”

“I’m not his heir. He didn’t want me to go into the army so he wrote me out of his will.”

She sat next to him, tucking her legs under her. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to care.”

She took a gulp of her wine. “Jaime—“

“Yes. Why I’m here. I don’t know really why I sought you out. I just found it interesting that you didn’t run away. Most people do. And then you challenged me.” His lips quirked.

“I don’t back down that easily.”

“No, I figured that out.” He stood up and offered her his hand. “Now come on, we are not staying in on New Year’s Eve. I know a pub down the road.”

“No, I don’t want to go out!” She looked up at him, wondering how exactly how he had overturned her perfectly planned evening.

“As much as I love your pyjamas, perhaps you should get changed?” he suggested with a smirk.

She sighed and reached for his hand, slightly surprised by how easily he pulled her up.

****

They had somehow found a table in a corner, probably helped by their height and Jaime’s unforgiving glances. She nursed a pint of beer, only bought after Jaime had rolled his eyes at her insistence, that no thank you she did not want a more ‘girly’ drink.

“Well, isn’t this better wench?”

It was noisy and crowded and people were already drunk and it really wasn’t her thing at all. She shrugged. A roar went up from tight knot of people at the bar as they forced one of its members to down something. She glanced at Jaime who was smiling at their raucousness, passing a quick look to see what he found so entertaining. It was not quick enough. One of them leered at her and she grimaced at having drawn attention to herself. Even without looking at them, she knew what was happening. He would laugh and jolt his friend and point and snigger and more friends would join in until one of them was dared to go up to her and either make some obnoxious remark or try and chat her up, not quite hiding their titters. She had fallen for the attention once, a long time ago. Then she hadn’t seen the calculating looks, the handshakes that sealed the deal, the gulps they had to take before they tried to kiss her.

“Come on, we’re going,” she hissed at Jaime who looked up at her with confusion when she got up.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving. You can stay if you want to.”

She made her way through the crowds and outside into the blissful cold and quiet, the echoes of the mocking laughter still ringing in her ears. She turned for home but only got a dozen paces before there was a hand on her arm and she was twisted round to face Jaime.

“What the hell, wench?”

She yanked her arm back, ignoring his piercing questioning look. “Christ, I just want to go home.”

“But I thought—“

“Well you thought wrong. Do you know the real reason I left? Huh?” She jabbed a hand into his chest and gave him enough of a push to make him take a step back. “For one night I just wanted to— those boys—“

“What about them?”

She snorted in derision. “Oh yes, I’m sorry. You wouldn’t even notice their pointing and staring and laughing at me would you? Why? Because you’re one of them.”

A puff of white mist hung between them. His face twitched into a frown. The streetlights gave everything a faintly ominous yellow glare; his eyes rusty orange instead of forest green.

“I would have said something to them if you’d asked, Brienne.”

Her name caught her out and she stalled for a second.  

“That’s not the point. I can defend myself perfectly, it’s just-just-that I don’t see-I don’t want to have to do it _all_ the time. I’m tired of it. Really tired.” Her voice broke and she backed away from Jaime, feeling exhausted and barely able to stand and overawed that she had spilt this to him of all people. She took a deep breath and set off down the street. He matched her pace for pace, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, silent.

She had her key in the door before she turned to him, on the step below.

“I’m sorry I made your New Year’s Eve such a mess,” she said softly, looking at her feet.

“Not a chance, wench.” There was a forced lightness to his voice but his attempt cheered her and she caught his gaze as he looked up at her. “When do you go back to your base?”

“A fortnight yet.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Oh good. Plenty of time.”

“Time for what?”

“Despite what you may think, I’m nothing like the scum in the pub. I want to prove it to you.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me, Jaime. You owe me nothing,” she said shyly.

“No, I have a lot to prove. You seem a good a place to start as any. And I owe you a drink. A proper one. Which you can finish in peace.” There was a faint smile even though his tone was serious.

She hesitated. She made herself leap. “Alright.”

He laughed. “Well until then, wench.” He reached for her hand and she watched wide-eyed as he pressed her knuckles to his lips.

She was just inside when she heard faint church bells. She counted them. Twelve.


	3. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties from canon in crossovers in terms of when characters exist but I hope it makes sense.

Jaime spotted Brienne waiting by the steps down to the tube. Her tall figure, stooped against the wind, was instantly recognisable in the swarms of people that buffeted her on their way somewhere. She was early, of course she was. She’d probably been there for ten minutes or more, he thought, fearful of being late.

Raising a hand in greeting, she nodded and walked towards him. She tried a smile, but it came out as a worried twitch as she found herself having to wait for a crowd of rowdy school kids to pass in front of her.

“Sorry,” said Brienne, when she finally reached him. Her nose and cheeks were red from the cold. She looked tired.

“Sorry already? You haven’t even said hello.”

She let her shoulders drop. “Hello.”

“Better. Right, come on. You don’t mind going to my club do you?”

She raised an eyebrow and gave him a bemused look. “Your club? Of course you have a club. I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

He looked slightly put out, she noticed.

“Well. Yes. It suits me—“

She nodded mockingly, lifting a palm in sarcastic surrender.

“I don’t have to take you, wench. To be honest, even if they didn’t allow women, you would be absolutely fine getting in all by yourself,” he snapped.

He immediately regretted his words when he watched her smile slide away. Hurt washed over her features and then her face turned to stone.  She stepped back, away from his outstretched hand. Giving him one last disappointed glance, she turned and walked away quickly.

“Brienne, I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” he shouted at her back. “Christ, Brienne, stop running away will you?”

She stopped so suddenly he jolted into her. Muttering a few choice expletives, he grabbed her shoulders and directed her into a doorway, out of the way of everyone else.  “Look, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. You know that. You’re right. It is ridiculous. My father insisted. He thought it would be good for my character. He’s blind if he can’t see my character is already far beyond redemption. Look, I know you probably don’t want to see me again, but let me buy you a cup of tea at least.”

Furious blue eyes bored into him. “You really don’t help yourself do you?”

He smiled. “That has been said before, believe it or not. Come on, I’m gasping.”

She reluctantly accepted his hand at the small of her back as he guided her into a greasy spoon opposite. It was warm and clammy, the windows steamed up against the outside cold. The place smelled of eggs and chips and a lone pensioner looked up at them suspiciously. Jaime ordered two teas from the surly, sweaty cook.

There was an awkward silence, as their teaspoons clinked against their mugs.

“Are we going to be forced to talk about the weather, wench?” said Jaime, leaning back and stretching out his legs.

“It’s been bloody freezing,” she retorted.

He guffawed. “True. At least you’ll be away soon enough.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She gulped at her tea.

“Excited about going back to Afghan?”

“Yes. Looking forward to seeing my—“ she stopped abruptly. Blood rushed to her cheeks. “I mean, seeing my colleagues again.”

Raising an eyebrow, he gave her a knowing smile. “I’m sure you are. Brothers in arms? You would do anything for them? You get very close don’t you?”

“Stop it. It’s nothing like that.”

“Come now. You know what I’m talking about. Now, the only question is whether he’s your sergeant or your CO?”

Her blue eyes flashed and wavered as she tried to stare him out, but the way she was nearly drawing blood from her bottom lip and her white knuckles gave her away.

“Shut up. It’s not at all what you think and it’s none of your business so just stop it.”

He was intrigued but found himself not wanting to scare her off again. He reluctantly realised that had anyone asked the same questions of him, he would have told them to bugger off as well.

He shrugged, pretending to be bored. “Alright. So who are you, Captain Brienne Tarth? Apart from being twice the height of the rest of the female population?”

“I’m not very interesting.”

“God, this harder than getting blood from a stone. Fine. Tell me about home – an island, right?”

“Yes. Off Jersey. Dad lives in the fort, but there’s a little village and harbour. It’s very beautiful. Especially when the sun is shining.” She smiled faintly, remembering and missing it even as she described it.

“Sounds idyllic.”

She shifted uncomfortably. The Tarths were old, but old families meant run down castles and no money. “We barely keep the wolves from the door to be honest. Nothing like the Lannisters.”

He snorted. “Don’t believe everything you hear. We have our own problems, believe me.”

“Yes, having a huge estate like Casterley and pots of money does sound trying.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, wench.”

She let out an annoyed laugh. “You’re a spoilt brat.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps. But I would be careful about making judgements on things you don’t understand.”

“Indeed.”

They glowered at each other.  Both wondered quite how they managed to be provoked so easily by the other.

Jaime’s phone rang, making them both jump.

He looked at the name flashing on the screen. “Have to take this, sorry.”

She gestured about leaving. He shook his head, putting a hand on her arm to make sure she didn’t disappear.

“Cersei— What’s the matter— No, I’m busy—“ He glanced at Brienne, who was fiddling with the sugar. “Just meeting— Look, I’ll call you in a while— Yes, alright, tonight— Bye.”

“You’re busy. I should go,” said Brienne, escaping from his grasp. “Thanks for the tea.”

Jaime wasn’t really listening. “You would think she wasn’t a bloody grown-up and capable of sorting out her own life,” he muttered.

Brienne stood, pulling on her coat and scarf. Jaime looked up, puzzled.

“Where are you going?”

She pointed at the phone. “It sounded like you were needed.”

He grimaced. “No. Not really. Where were we?”

She cocked her head and studied him. “Something about being quick to judge.”

Catching her gaze, he sighed. “Yes, I remember.” He stood, wiping away patch on the window to look outside. “It’s snowing.”

Brienne took a step closer to look too. “I need to go home and pack.”

They stood on the doorstep, watching the snow fall in the growing darkness.

“Bye then,” said Brienne, wondering how to leave something that barely existed.

He turned to her, an exasperated smile pulling at lips. “Does anyone ever breach those walls, wench?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Goodbye and good luck, Brienne.”

She looked at him for a moment, then leant forward to place a peck on his cheek.

“Bye,” she breathed as she stepped away. She nearly ran down the street, almost sure she had gone mad. 


	4. Good Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you'll find out, I've changed their setting. I do not profess to know that much about its intricacies, so please forgive any errors. Reading your lovely comments makes my whole day so I hope this lives up to your expectations.

Sat at her desk in her stuffy tent, Brienne let out an exasperated sigh at the amount of paperwork that still needed to be done. Evening was fast setting in, and the air was sweet with the smell of dust and the day’s warmth. Sleep threatened to overtake her; none of the base had had much recently due to the night time attacks. She glanced longingly at her camp bed, but forced herself to concentrate on the task ahead of her. Finish this, then eat, then bed, she promised herself. Her life here, so far away from home, was completely different. The basics of life were that much more precious.

The flap of the tent opened suddenly, letting in a rush of air that threatened to blow away her work. She looked up irritably to see her aide, Corporal Payne, ducking through.

“What is it, corporal?” she snapped, more harshly than she intended. He was a good soul, if a little shy. She had chosen him merely for the fact that he didn’t snigger at her. It had been a good choice.

“Err… ma’am, there’s someone to see you.”

She put down her pen. “Who? I’m not expecting anyone.”

“They wouldn’t say.”

“Well you best send them in then,” she said, as she tidied up her desk and pulled a few loose bits of hair back into her bun.

After a few seconds, the visitor stepped in to the tent. She looked up, blinking hard as she took in who was standing in front of her.

“Hello wench, fancy meeting you here,” quipped Jaime.

She was lost for words momentarily as the memory of the last time she had seen him flickered before her eyes. Winter coat was replaced by military fatigues, shirt sleeves rolled up. Messy hair now cut short and neatly brushed. But his interested expression, his faintly amused look and acerbic smile were the same. She remembered how she had said goodbye. How she had cringed over that and everything else, over her inability to react normally. She had only done it because she thought she would never see him again. And now he was here, halfway across the world, and in her tent.

“What are you doing here?” she spluttered, standing up. Blood rushed to her cheeks, unbidden.

“I fancied a holiday in warmer climes.” He rolled his eyes sarcastically. “No. Some higher authority decided that I could be of more use out here.” His green eyes became suddenly serious. “Anyway, it’s been too long. How are you?”

Too long had been almost three months. He had considered writing to her, but what was there to say? That he missed their argumentative conversations, her determined gazes? She would have thought he was pulling her leg. But when his regiment had offered a chance to bolster numbers out here, he had jumped at the chance. He knew it was reckless decision probably based on an entirely false presumption, but he trusted his instinct. Cersei had screamed and stamped her foot. Father had refused to even say goodbye. Tyrion at least had the decency to give him a bottle of whiskey and wish him good luck.

“Fine,” she answered, distracted.

“Glad to hear it, wench.”

Despite what she had said, she looked exhausted. Faint lines had appeared on her forehead which weren’t there before. Her eyes seemed bluer than ever against her tanned skin, but they were haunted with things that couldn’t be unseen. And she was looking at him like he was a ghost.

Confusion clouded her face. “But I don’t understand how—“ _Why hadn’t he written to say he was coming? Why had she heard nothing from him for months? Why had she been such a fool to think that something—_

“There’s nothing to understand. I got shipped out last night. Thought I better find you before they give me any real work to do.”

“Why?” she asked again.

“Why I wanted to find you? Good question. Six foot plus blonde wenches who are far too serious for their own good are quite rare. You’re the only I know here.” _I missed you, you stubborn wench._

“Oh.” She tugged at her lip, still unbelieving. God, he really hadn’t changed a bit, she thought. It was such an odd time, those few days. Nobody ever noticed her, except for all the wrong things, and then he, Jaime Lannister of all people, did.

 “Look, I haven’t got my digs set up and I can’t face the NAAFI, do you think I can cadge a cup of tea?” he asked, careful to keep the tone light.

“Yes, I suppose.” She stuck her head out of the tent, giving the order to Payne. She gestured at her camp bed. “Sit, if you like.”  Jaime sat slowly, catching sight the photos that she had pinned up. One was of an old, tall man smiling on a sandy white beach. _Her dad, Tarth_. He remembered their last conversation, the brief touch of her cheek on his quite clearly. He had watched her vanish in the heavy snow, wondering where that had come from.

Payne brought in a tray, casting a wary look at the stranger that had made him promise not to tell her who he was. “Go and have your dinner, Payne, I won’t need you anymore tonight,” said Brienne. He came to attention smartly until she dismissed him with a quick salute and he dashed out.

Brienne found herself barely able to look at Jaime, though his gaze sought hers out constantly. She felt awkward and out of place, unable to adjust to the shift in her world that had taken place the moment he walked back into it. Busying herself in pouring the tea, she handed over the mug and a plate with a slice of cake that Payne had sweetly remembered.

“Cake? How civilised,” he laughed. “Bake it with your own fair hands? Is there a domestic streak hidden somewhere very deep?”

She blushed. “It was my birthday yesterday. We do it for the men, to try to make an effort for morale, to keep things sort of normal.”

“I’m sorry I missed it. Did you have a nice day, even if you did have to spend your—“

“Twenty-fourth.”

“—Twenty-fourth birthday in a war-zone?” He didn’t realise she was quite that young, despite her naivety. He had been in Northern Ireland when he turned twenty-four. He knew exactly what had happened to his own innocence there. God help her if something happened to dim her wholesomeness here. No one deserved that, least of all her. Cynicism was a corrupting force, but occasionally rare individuals managed to avoid it. It was absurd, but he wanted her to remain one of the lucky few.

She heaved a heavy sigh. “No, we took pretty heavy casualties. Several of my men were killed.” A wave of sadness, guilt and everything in between rushed over her face.

“Christ, Brienne—“

“They weren’t even supposed to be out on patrol. We’re an artillery regiment, for god’s sake. But we’re penned in like chickens, just waiting for a fox to come and tear us apart.” It came out in an angry rush, frustrations bubbling over.

“You do the best you can and that’s all anyone can ask of you.”

She shook her head. “What if my best isn’t good enough?”

He leaned forward, and placed a hand on hers in silent reassurance. It was hot and rough but she snatched hers away before she could think about what it meant. Standing abruptly, she clattered her mug down on the table. “I need to get on,” she said in a blank voice, wringing her hands.

“I’ve not finished my tea, wench,” he joked.

“It’s Captain Tarth here. Nothing else.” He looked up at her upset tone. “I’ve got to write letters to distraught parents explaining why their sons didn’t die in vain. I’ve got to decide who goes out on patrol tomorrow, which lives I put at risk. I don’t have time—“ Her breaths were short and sharp; she was suffocating from the responsibility of it all. She had coped so far by pushing it deep down. And then he had come and undone all her efforts and it wasn’t fair.

He raised an eyebrow at her outburst. “Please, I’ve no intention of become a burden of duty, _Captain Tarth._ I won’t disturb you any longer,” he said, trying not to sound as bewildered as he felt.

“Jaime,” she blurted out. He turned in the entrance. “I—I—“ She couldn’t get the words out because she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what she could say to explain herself. Everything stuck in her throat, like it always did. She shook her head and looked down. “Nothing. Sorry.” She didn’t see his troubled glance as he ducked out and away. 


	5. St George's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for your comments! I'm really enjoying writing this, and hope you enjoy reading it.

_Brienne sobbing on his shoulder was not how Jaime expected the day to end, as he wrapped his arms round her heaving body._

Since their first conversation, where he found himself outside her tent wondering what the hell had just happened, Brienne had been conspicuously distant. Of course they saw each other as they went about their business, but she had wilfully snubbed him despite his best attempts to make her listen to him. He had only wanted to talk to her, for god’s sake. 

Yet even with her standoffishness, there had been moments where he sensed something more, something that seeped through the cracks. Sometimes he would catch a shy look from across the canteen or as they walked in opposite directions. He nodded hello at the morning briefings and usually she would nod back. Then this morning, the only free chair at the briefing had been next to her. He had hesitated for a split second and then decided to see what a little direct action might achieve.

“Captain,” he said in a friendly voice as he sat.

“Captain Lannister,” came the terse reply. She was looking straight ahead, still except for the pen that she flicked against her notepad. It was like the very end of a cat’s tail, leaking her otherwise hidden feelings.

“You haven’t been ignoring me, have you?” he asked.

Her mouth twitched. “No.”

“Oh, you liar. But never mind. How are things? Bet you’re relieved it’s quietened down a bit.”

“Yes.”

“Conversation doesn’t come easily to you, does it?”

She shifted in her seat. “I only speak when I have something to say.”

“And you have nothing to say to me?” It came out more pained than he envisaged.

Her pen stilled and she looked down. “It’s nothing to do with you. I don’t speak to anyone at all these days, apart from giving orders. It’s no more than that.”

He looked at her profile and wondered if he had managed to lose his weak hold on her. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered forcefully as he leant ever so slightly towards her. She caught his determined look and returned one full of uncertainty.

“Think what you like, then. You always make assumptions—“

He snorted. “You’re too easy to read to even bother making assumptions.”

“Well then, you should know that I don’t think there is any reason for us to meet, to talk.”

“It didn’t seem that way when you met me last week, when you poured your heart out to me.”

“That was a mistake.” She felt him looking at her, but she dared not catch his eye in fear that he would see another lie, another falsehood thrown up to distance herself from things that frightened her.

“Yes, perhaps it was,” he murmured after a heavy silence. This was precisely not what he had wanted to happen.

Then all hell had broken loose. The sirens had gone and he saw the wench running to her artillery post, shouting and directing the action. Despite his dark mood, he appreciated the fact that she was an impressive sight. There was no doubt in her ability to understand what her men were shouting through the noise and smoke; sorting out problems before they had a chance to affect their efficiency. She joined in a team, handling the shells with startling ease. Where had this Brienne, with her assertiveness and her calmness under pressure, been that morning when she sat fidgeting in her chair?

He had only been able to watch for a minute or so before running off to sort out his own men for a patrol. When he came back hours later, dusty and dirty and tired, the camp seemed to be in a sombre mood. Passing through the Gunners’ section on his way to his tent, he spotted Payne.

“Corporal. You could cut the atmosphere here with a knife. I’ve been out all day – what happened?”

The boy paled. “We came under sustained fire, sir. It was carnage, our—”

Jaime interrupted, heart suddenly in his mouth. “Is Bri— Is Captain Tarth alright?”  He itched to shake the answer out of Payne, but clenched his fists instead as he waited for the boy to get the words out.

“Y-y-yes, sir.”

Jaime let out a breath and made towards her tent. Payne had to half run to keep up with Jaime’s long, quick strides. “Sir, she expressly said no visitors, she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Turn a blind eye this time, Payne. I’ll make sure you’re not blamed.”

“But, sir—“ He stood, fretting at the entrance.

“Stand aside, corporal. That’s an order,” snapped Jaime.

Payne reluctantly stepped away to let him through, though Jaime didn’t escape the daggered look he got.

It was gloomy inside, and he didn’t spot her immediately. Then he saw her, curled up on her bed. He ventured further, stopping at the end of her bed.

“Brienne?” he asked, softly. He set down his bag, rifle and helmet.

There was silence. He wondered if she was asleep, but called her name again just in case. This time she stirred, and he could see her eyes glinting in the shadows.

“Go away.” Her voice was rough and lifeless.

“Not until you tell me what happened.”

“Go away! I don’t want to talk to you, to anyone—“

“Payne was doing an admirable job at keeping people out, but I’m afraid I rather spoiled it for him.”

There was a hiss of anger and she leapt out of bed. She pushed him towards the tent flaps with a forceful jolt. “Go away! Just get out—“

He grabbed her wrists, resisting her desperate push. In the better light from the entrance, he saw her face. There were streaks of blood and dirt in her hair and on her face, where it had mixed with tears. Her eyes were wild and terrified.

“Fuck, Brienne! What the hell happened to you? Are you hurt?” he shouted at her.

She kept struggling against his hold, but his blood was up and he stood firm.

“Calm down! I’m not going anywhere no matter how much you kick and scream, wench,” he barked.

Unexpectedly, she went limp in his grasp and Jaime had to step forward to make sure she didn’t fall. He gripped her shoulders and directed her backwards to sit on her bed, kneeling himself so he could look at her properly. His hands rested on her forearms. He noticed she was trembling.

“For god’s sake, wench, say something!”

She was crying too hard to speak, oblivious to anything else.

He felt helpless in the face of her pain. No-one had ever been like this in front of him before. What the hell was overwhelming this strong, steady girl so completely?

He forced a calmer tone to his voice. “Tell me.” He squeezed her arms gently.

“H-h-he’s dead,” she stuttered suddenly. It hurt like nothing else, a hot poker buried deep in her chest and then ripped out, taking with it all she held onto dearly, all her love and devotion.

“Who is?”

“R-R-Renly, Major Baratheon… my CO.”

_Bloody girl was in love with him, wasn’t she?_ He knew he had been right back then in that horrid little café. He knew the Baratheons vaguely, and Renly had seemed the most civilised. He could just imagine her falling for someone who would show her a little common decency. A shot of guilt ran through him.

She continued to speak through her tears. There was a sense she was just talking to nothing, nobody in particular. “I let it happen. It should have been me.”

“Stop right there. Don’t even start going down that path. It only leads to dark places.” His tone brooked no argument.

She looked at him despairingly. “He was right next to me. I walked away to deal with something—I can’t even remember what— then I heard the grenade… he got a piece of shrapnel here—“ she laid a hand across just below her neck. “I tried to stop the bleeding but I couldn’t…I couldn’t…” She lifted her palms and gazed unbelieving at the blood that stained them.

He clasped them in his, hiding them from sight. “It’s not your fault. Not. Your. Fault.”

She shook her head violently. “I can’t… why couldn’t I help?” she asked desperately.

“You’re in shock. I’ll fetch the medics.” He stood to leave but felt her hands grip his.

“No! Please don’t leave me, not yet. Please, not yet. Just stay here for a little while…a little while.”

He couldn’t refuse her; not her touch on his hands, not her pleading, stormy eyes, not her desperate vulnerability. He sat on the narrow bed as she clung to him, her reservations lost somewhere on the battlefield. 


	6. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so a critical chapter - hope you like it :)

Jaime shielded his eyes from the setting sun and looked out over the dusty land. It was farmland, edged with deep inlets and the still suffocating heat made mirages across the horizon. His patrol, hunkered down beside him in the faint protection of a crumbling wall, shifted nervously. They had to get across the fields to get back the main road and home before night fell. A million things stood in their way, from the snipers to the IEDs to the fact that the map he was holding was useless. It was the same every day; patrols stretching out from the base like trembling spider webs and about as strong to clear the roads, speak with locals, hunt out the insurgents and then retreating to the supposed safety of their compounds. He glanced back down at the map and up again; it was dangerous to cross open ground at any time of the day and made unbearably slow as the metal detector was swept from side to side like the ticking of a clock. But they didn’t have time to go another way round before it got dark so it had to be done, whatever he felt about it.

He stood, beckoning to the point man.

“Slow, Estren. We are almost blind out here and about as exposed as some northern girl on a Friday night out, understand?”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Everyone else, listen and look. Alright, let’s get this show on the road.”

Private Estren began the sweeping, rhythmical movement and the five men set off. They stepped in the other’s tracks, concentrating on not losing their balance. Jaime shifted his grasp on his rifle, checking his side-arm, his helmet.

As they made their way across, Jaime wondered if he would be back in time to catch the wench before she turned in at the ridiculously early time she seemed to prefer. It had been a fortnight since she had broken down in front of him. When he saw her the next morning she had looked tired and wan, but the familiar glint of determination had reappeared in her blue eyes. She had been embarrassed, of course. Face tomato red and struck dumb. Eventually, she had stuttered out a thank you, looking perhaps even grateful rather than angry that he had turned up which was a nice change. The girl had certainly been less frosty than usual since—

He saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He stopped sharply, trying to search for the faint change that had caught his attention. It was nearly dark; the world was losing its colour and definition and as much as he strained his eyes, he just couldn’t see for sure whether it was just the wind catching the leaves, or a stray cat or something—

The dust flew up in spurts around his feet before he heard the chatter of machine gun fire that swept around him. He crashed to the ground instinctively, using the last of the air in his lungs to shout a warning, an order, anything to protect his men. Something fell down in front of him and even without lifting up his head, he knew that was the sound of dead-weight. Indeed, when he looked up Estren was staring back at him with unseeing eyes. There was no let-up in the noise and bullets that sped past him, just millimetres away. It was only the fact that he had somehow managed to fall in a deep groove left by a plough that he was still alive. He shouted out names, waiting for any kind of reply; a muffled yes, a groan, a whimper. Anything but silence. Faint voices came from behind him. He shuffled on his belly towards the others, manoeuvring into a deeper furrow.

“Anyone injured?” he shouted above the chaos.

The men shook their heads, adrenaline filled eyes staring from haggard faces. They all ducked as a wave of stuttering bullets came close.

“Get someone on the radio, we need back up and tell them to fucking hurry. Tell them about Estren. Tell the RAF to get off their lazy arses and start doing some work. Got that?” The youngest of the group, Private Frey yelped at Jaime’s shouts and with fumbling fingers picked up, dropped and picked up the radio again. _Christ, he’s barely more than a child. Too green to be of any sort of use._  The voices on the radio chattered something indistinguishable to Jaime, but the boy spoke quickly back. He nodded to Jaime when he had finished.

“They’re coming, sir,” he shouted.

“Good. We’ve got to get out of this hell hole before they blow the place to pieces, back the way we came. I’ll lay down covering fire while the rest of you crawl out on your bellies. Understood?”

Sergeant Clegane knocked the back of the other two’s heads when they remained open mouthed, unwilling to move even from their tiny bit of shelter. “You heard him. Now fucking move!” he growled, pushing the others away.

“Clegane, can you get Estren out of here?”

The big, grizzled sergeant who had seen more horrors than most of the regiment gave Jaime a dark look. He nodded sharply though Jaime could see the disdain in the man’s eyes at even questioning his capability of doing such a gruesome task.

Jaime gingerly peaked over the trough. He spotted the likely source of the gun fire from a corner of the field, where an irrigation channel created the perfect hiding place. He couldn’t see how many of the enemy he was facing, but the bright flare of the machine gun was clear enough. He took aim, gave a couple of quick shots and then another few. He turned his head to watch the three others creep their way back. _Too slow, too slow. Sitting ducks, all of us._  He let out a manic bark of laughter when a line of a poem he hadn’t even thought about since school appeared in his mind. _If I should die, think only this of me; that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England._  No. _No_. He wasn’t going to die. Not here in this muck and mess. Not alone. He kept shooting until the bullets ran out. _Fuck._  He ducked down again and reached for his pistol. The rat-a-tat-tat changed direction and it took a moment before he realised the three had got across and were now shooting back. _About bloody time_. He set off crawling, groping at the soil and sand as he pulled himself along.

He was nearly back at the wall when something rolled and clanked in front of him. It was distinctive sound of metal hitting rock. It wasn’t his rifle, he realised, nor the click of a button or clasp on the men a few yards away. A grenade. There was no time for him to shout, for the others to turn and leap well away. Without thinking, he stretched for the innocuous looking thing, his fingers feeling the cool, etched steel. He lifted his arm and threw— too late, he knew. The thought came and left his mind quite calmly; he could hear the breath he took just beforehand and the contraction of the muscles in his face and neck as he grimaced and hunkered down. _Too late._  The second it left his fingertips, it exploded. The world turned white, red and then black.

Through the blackness, an agonising scream reached him and he twisted this way and that to see its source. But he couldn’t reach it and it was getting louder and louder. _God, make it stop! Somebody put it out of its misery!_  He tried to make his mouth move, to shout out and make it stop, and found it already open. In the split seconds before a storm of pain drowned him, he realised he was the one screaming, screaming from the bottom of his lungs.

The others looked on in horror. They hadn’t even seen the grenade, not until the explosion with its boom of dirt and fire had sent them keening backwards, arms wrapped round their faces. Even before the dust had cleared, the screaming had started and then stopped short. An odd silence settled for several long moments before it was broken by the harsh orders from Clegane as reality crashed in again.  Directing the remaining members of the patrol to keep a look out or get the fucking helicopter here now, he crawled over to Jaime. He cursed when he saw the state of him. Reaching over to press two fingers to his neck, he was surprised to find a pulse. Weak, but there. He took a firm grip on Jaime’s backpack and pulled. Grunting and sweating and cursing, he pulled his captain backwards until they hit the wall again.

The darkness lifted when Jaime felt himself being bundled about. He could do little but flinch as rough hands ripped away his body armour and a sharp jab attacked him. Then a warmth suffused his entire body, a warmth that dulled him and made him feel as light as air in the same moment. _Morphine,_  his groggy brain realised. _Then I’m not dead. Thank god for that._  He tried to open his eyes but it was too difficult to find the right commands, to put in the required effort. Blood pounded in his temples and he felt the sweat pouring off him as he realised what had happened. _Too late…too late!_ Voices, urgent voices and the crackle of the radio loomed somewhere high above him. The words were lost in the muffled air. The noises grew louder as someone kneeled next to him. Despite the morphine, he let out a long moan when someone touched his arm. He tried to shake off the offending pressure but they wouldn’t let go. Instead, a hand pushed down on his shoulder as someone gripped his upper arm. More pain, shrieking its way through his damaged nerves and muscles exploded in his brain. _No. No! NO!_  More wretched, unimaginable and horrendously protracted agony. With a guttural yell, he wrenched himself upwards into a sitting position. In the shifting glare of torchlight, his eyes searched desperately for the proof that he was wrong. _He_ _had to be wrong, he had to be_. His arm ended abruptly, blood soaking the tattered remains of his jacket sleeve. The rest of him didn’t escape either; there was blood everywhere, almost dark, almost black. Then the pure white of a bandage appeared from somewhere in the gloom, so oddly innocent and clean. He stared at it, uncomprehending. The moment it was squeezed against the stump, he fainted.


	7. After Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you'll recognise a certain conversation in this chapter and I owe it all to GRRM, to which the words belong. They're probably my favourite few lines between Jaime and Brienne, so I hope you can excuse me indulging myself. 
> 
> I'm having so much fun writing this, and I hope you have fun reading.
> 
> Anyway, on with the show!

The nurse on the front desk looked up when Brienne entered the hospital tent. She gave Brienne her usual stare of pity, contempt and apathy before shrugging and turning back to her work. Brienne ignored it, like she always did, but faintly wondered how long it might be before she got a smile or a hello. She had been coming every spare minute for three days now, to sit at Jaime’s side and—  and what, she asked herself, as she settled into the hard plastic chair next to his bed. She didn’t really know why she was there. The question rattled round her head as she smoothed out a crease in the sheet that covered a sleeping Jaime. All she was sure of was that the pull to be near him, to look after him came from somewhere deep inside her gut from the moment she heard about what happened.

Almost as soon as the helicopter had landed, the news of the fatality and the ambush through the camp had spread. Sitting in the officers’ mess, her ears had pricked at the mention of Jaime’s troop. It was only moments later that he was mentioned by name. In a daze, Brienne had only caught the odd word that floated round the room… _injured… nearly dead… reckless… martyr…blown up…_ and had run halfway to the hospital before she realised what she was doing. _They wouldn’t let her in. He wouldn’t be in a state to see her anyway even if he wanted to._

She had spent that night worrying, only falling asleep in the early hours due to sheer exhaustion. After begging some time off the next morning, she had steeled herself and asked if she could see him. They had told her to wait. Eventually a doctor, his military fatigues covered by a white coat, approached her.

“Colonel Qyburn. You are?” he asked softly. Warm, brown eyes regarded her.

She saluted. “Captain Tarth, sir.”

“I understand you wish to visit Captain Lannister. Why?”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably under his piercing gaze. “He’s a…a… friend,” she said. “Is he going to be alright?” The question slipped out before she could think and she blushed.

“Come with me.”

Qyburn led the way through to the intensive care ward. Only one of the six beds was filled and the room was silent apart from the gentle beeping of machines. They came to a stop at the foot of Jaime’s bed. Brienne had to swallow a gasp as she took in the man she saw in front of her. A mask, helping him breathe, covered most of his face, though she could still see the bruises and angry cuts. His right arm, bandaged tightly, was laid on top of the sheet. He looked terribly young, a mere boy tucked up in bed asleep, blond hair awry on the stark white pillow. But he also looked older than his years, lines etched on his hurt face, his body damaged and unmoving.

“The surgery went well enough, despite the mess his arm was in. We had to work hard to save the elbow, but we did. We patched up the other bits – collapsed lung, broken ribs, that sort of thing. He’s lucky to be alive. Apparently, one of the eye-witnesses said the grenade didn’t go off properly, didn’t explode to its full extent. So he lost his arm, but didn’t lose his life.”

Brienne tried to take it all in as the doctor kept talking.

“We were going to ship him back to the UK this morning, but he’s running a fever. We’ve got to keep him under observation until that passes.”

“A fever?”

“Yes, he’s weak, in shock. Infection is highly likely in these cases. We’ve started him on antibiotics so hopefully he should pull round soon.”

“Can I sit…stay for a bit?” asked Brienne softly, staring at Jaime.

“Well, he’s going to be asleep for a while. But as you wish.”

She nodded her understanding and sat down. He hadn’t woken on that day or the next when she had been around, but she kept coming and watching and worrying. Sweat beaded on his brow and his breaths took on a rasp that made her grimace. Doctors came, looked at Jaime’s notes and left, talking in hushed tones. Qyburn himself made regular visits, nodding to Brienne. She had tried to ask what was going on, but he merely smiled and said something about having to wait it out.

It was the third day and Brienne was doing paperwork on her knees in an effort to distract herself when Jaime groaned and coughed and groaned again.

She looked up sharply. “Jaime?” she said, putting a hand gently on his injured arm. “Don’t move, it’ll hurt. You’re in hospital, remember?”

He groaned, scrabbling at the mask.

“Stop it,” she tutted, standing and removing the mask herself. A dark green eye looked up at her. His right eye was swollen shut from a deep laceration.

“Christ. It’s you,” said Jaime, his voice broken and gruff.

“Have a drink of water.” Brienne lifted a glass to his lips, watching him gulp it down. She felt completely out of place again as his gaze followed her when she set the glass down. She had somehow got used to Jaime being still and asleep, a presence but not really there.

“Why are you here?” he spat out.

She bit her lip hard. “I was worried. Do you remember what happ—“

“What? This?” He tilted his head to his arm. “Oh yeah, fucking easy to forget this, isn’t it? Did you also get a blow to your head or were you always this stupid?” He took a gasping breath, cheeks flushed in the struggle to speak. A line of sweat ran down his temple.

She frowned, hurt at the tone in his voice. _He’s in pain, it’s understandable that he’s not up for conversation._ “S-s-sorry. Of course. I only meant—“

“I don’t care what you meant. I don’t care about what happened. I don’t want to care, alright? So just leave me alone.” He turned his head, away from her. She saw him grimace at the movement, but his dismissal of her was obvious.

Brienne stood still for a moment, angry herself. _Selfish, even now. He only thinks about his pride._ “I care. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said stubbornly before she turned and walked out.

It was late the next day before she found the time to go back to the hospital. Even so, she hesitated outside the doors. _She wouldn’t let him force her away. He had stuck by her when Renly had— She owed him that at least. But what could she actually do to help? It wasn’t something that could be cured by a hug and a friendly word_. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice Qyburn appearing at her side.

“Captain Tarth. A word if you please.” He opened the door and gestured to his office. She sat awkwardly on the edge of a chair across the desk from the doctor. “As you can see for yourself, Lannister is not recovering as well as we hoped—”

"The infection?” she broke in.

He gave an annoyed twitch at being interrupted. “As I said before, nothing unusual. We can give him all the medicines he requires, but—“ he stood suddenly and stalked across to look out the window, hands clasped behind his back. “A man has to want to live.”

“He doesn’t want to live?” she echoed, distraught. She found herself on the verge of tears. _That he would let himself do that— It was anathema to everything she believed in and thought she knew about Jaime. She couldn’t let it happen, she just couldn’t._ She rubbed her palms over her eyes.

“It’s not as simple as that of course, captain. Everyone reacts differently to trauma. But most of the time the soldiers I treat have an inner drive, a willingness to overcome whatever challenge they face. Lannister has become lost, I fear.”

“I see.” _She didn’t see; she didn’t understand at all._

“I hoped you would. Please, don’t let me take up anymore of your time.” He opened the door to his office and showed her out.

Brienne found herself at Jaime’s bedside just as the nurses were changing his bandages. He was whimpering, face white and tight with pain, eyes pressed shut and his left hand clinging onto the sheets. The stump was raw red, black stitches marking where skin had been pulled over at the end. Blood and pus dirtied each wipe of cotton wool. Soon enough, a new bandage was wrapped round his arm and they were left alone.

She wondered if he had gone back to sleep but she came over and laid the back of her hand on his forehead. He stirred under her touch, fever-hot and clammy.

“Jaime?” she asked softly.

He mumbled something incomprehensible. She leant in closer.

“Jaime, what are you doing?”

“Dying.” He didn’t open his eyes to see Brienne frowning above him; half in crossness and half in concern.

“No. No. You must live,” she exclaimed. She wanted to shake him. _You can’t die, I won’t let you._

He cracked an eye open. “Stop telling me what to do, wench. I’ll die if it pleases me.”

She let out an exasperated sound and pulled away, pacing up and down. “You’re a coward. Does life frighten you that much?” _You’re frightened of nothing, Jaime. You can be brave. You must be brave._

There was a long silence. “What else can I do? This is no life,” he said quietly.

She gave him a stony-faced glare. “Don’t say that. You survived—“

“Christ, don’t you understand, wench? The army will kick me out. Take that away from me, and I’m nothing. Nothing. Just a disappointment, like always.” He was struggled to catch his breath, a sheen of sweat appearing.  

Her shoulders sagged at his confession.  She came closer again, running light fingers across his injured arm. “It’s just skin and flesh and bone, Jaime. It doesn’t define you. You are more than a soldier, more than a son.”

He looked at her, desperate and fearful. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” she said. She could see the doubt on his face. _She had to make him see._ She leant forward and placed a hand on his cheek. “I know you, better than you think, and I know this is not the end for you.” She took a deep breath as he stared at her. “Please, Jaime, fight this. Fight, and live.”


	8. Whit Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken over a month to get out... muses going missing, life getting busy blah blah blah.
> 
> Anyway. It's got some bits you'll recognise obviously and I'm eternally grateful to GRRM for both the inspiration and occasional word and sentence. But plot-wise, I've shifted some scenes about and created mangled reasons about why some characters do various things.
> 
> Pfft. I'll just let you read it and see what you think :)
> 
> much love xx

_Fight, and live._  It kept him going, through every mouthful of food he forced down, every time he sat up dizzy and sick, every minute when his arm was excruciating. Two days passed and he was getting better, though a touch of fever remained. Not that the wench had seen his improvement; she had sent word to say that she was too busy to visit. He half wondered if it was some excuse so she wouldn’t have to come, to save her blushes after her quiet, brave words to him. But it probably was the truth. He hoped so. Whether she was there or not, the days were too long, measured only in the flow and ebb of pain. He sought relief in sleep as much as he could. Usually it was the deep, undisturbed sleep of an exhausted man, but that night something was different. That night Jaime dreamed.

_It was unbearably hot. The heat bore down on him like a weight, a load on his shoulders that made it hard to stand and breathe. It seeped into his skin, burning and boiling and he felt the sweat roll down his temples and down his body. He went to wipe the sweat away from his eyes with his hand. His right hand. It tingled oddly but there was only sweet relief when he stretched his fingers. He thought there was a time when there was only pain but looking at his hands now, he shakes his head at his foolish notions. It was as dark as it was hot. There was no light but a faint glimmer from the far off moon. He knew where he was despite the thick blackness. He could taste it and smell it and he remembered with a lurch of panic._

_He sensed something behind him. Before he had a chance to look round, there were hands on the small of his back and they were pushing him forward. He stumbled and fell, landing in the dust and dirt of the field where he— There was something oozing between his fingers and toes and he turned his hands over in trepidation. Blood. His blood. And the blood of others, too many others. It made him gag; a dry heave wracked his body. He turned to face the figures behind him to ask_ why, why? _But the words stuck in his mouth when he saw it was his sister, his father. There must be some mistake, he thought innocently._

_“Cersei, Father, why are you here? Why am I here? It’s not safe, I don’t—“ he asked._

_Their blonde heads, almost of a height, turned towards his voice. As one, they spoke._

_“This is your place, this is your darkness.”_

_He tried to take a step towards them, but he couldn’t find the strength to move. This field of death was reclaiming him, inch by inch._

_“Please don’t leave me here!” he cried at them as they turned to go. “I am your son, your brother!”_

_When his pleas went unnoticed, he knew he was to be left alone to drown, slowly and agonisingly. With every breath he took, he could feel the blood and dirt pulling at him, cold dead tendrils snaking up his calves and thighs. Suddenly, from behind he could hear the squelching, sucking of feet making their way across. Why can they walk, when he cannot, he wondered._

_“Help me!” he shouted into the night._

_A hand stretched to him. The moment he grabbed it, he knew it. It was the large capable hand that lay warmly on his cheek a long time ago. He could still sense it now, even in this hell._

_“Brienne,” he said, relief washing over his words. “Pull me out.”_

_Her grasp shifted slightly and then he felt her might running through her and into him. It wasn’t enough. Her voice, deep but soft, appeared in his mind._

_“Fight and live. Isn’t that what I told you?”_

_He growled. “I’m trying!”_

_“Jaime, I don’t think you are. Do you want to live?”_

_Breath stealing fear throttled him when her hand disappeared and he sank back. “Yes,” he whimpered at her, “Yes, I want to live. I want to live. Please, Brienne. Help me.”_

_He was pulled out with ease and though he can hardly see her, he sensed her closeness, her familiar shape and height and the fierceness that radiated from her and knew he was safe._

_“Where are we?” she asked, her voice more wary than before. “What’s out there?”_

_“Death. Doom. Something horrible.”_

_“This is where you lost your arm,” she stated out of the blue._

_“Yes. I can’t forget the smell of it— We need to get out of here. Right now.”_

_She shifted, turning slightly. “There’s somebody coming. Soldiers.”_

_He followed her gaze, watching the silent soldiers walk their way to him. He knew them before he even saw their faces. Whent and Darry. Martell and Hightower. Dayne. They were his brothers once, his protectors as he was theirs. Now they were only ghosts. Young men, but old ghosts with sad dark eyes._

_“You don’t frighten me,” he said to them, circling to face the oncoming men. “And I have a woman here who can fight as well as I can.”_

_“I stand with Jaime,” she said. “He is not to be harmed.”_

_“You inspire loyalty, Lannister. Shame you cannot give it to others,” said Dayne, his voice cutting through the murk._

_“He was going to kill everyone,” Jaime said, an edge of desperation touching his words. “You know that.”_

_“He was your commanding officer,” said Darry._

_“You swore to obey,” said Whent._

_“I tried to stop him…I was with him—“ said Lannister._

_“Killing him,” said Dayne._

_“Shooting him,” said Martell._

_“The man you swore your service to,” said Hightower._

_The moonlight disappeared, leaving only the terrible, terrific night to close in on him and Brienne. The rough hand of dread grasped his throat, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see her anymore—_

_“No,” he shouted until he could shout no more, “no, no, no!”_

He woke with a jolt that sent a dagger of pain through his arm. He was damp with sweat and fear and he heard his ragged breaths in the quiet gloomy room which dawn was just beginning to light. The hospital. He looked down at his arm. It was wrapped neatly in a bandage, ending abruptly halfway down. He felt tears prick his eyes. For a moment, he had been whole, he had not changed.

He sat up, grimacing at the soreness of his arm and his body. The nightmare clouded his brain still; he could feel the stickiness of the blood on his hands and the terror that crushed his heart. _Fight and live_. The words echoed round his mind. Her words, the wench’s. She’d been there and pulled him out and saved him. She’d stood by him, even when the— He put his left hand to his throat, rubbing away the memory.

Casting off the blanket that covered him, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A wave of wooziness made him stop and he had to close his eyes for what seemed an eternity before the world seemed steady again. His arm was thumping with pain now. It was going to hurt even more after this, he thought, as he lifted his left arm to his mouth and ripped out the tubes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Qyburn from the doorway.

Jaime looked up, cursing himself at being caught. “Christ! Ahh, Colonel. I…err…I need to—“

Qyburn walked towards him, pointing a finger to the bed. “Captain, please get back into bed.”

Jaime ignored the doctor and stood, grasping for the bedside table when his legs threaten to fail him. “I do actually need to see someone— it’s important, I have to tell—“

“Get back into bed, Lannister. I don’t want to have to make it an order.”

Jaime stared at the smaller, older man. If he’d been uninjured…well— it’s not like he didn’t have form at disobeying his superiors. But a wave of pain rushed through him and he cradled his arm gently.

“If I can’t go, please can you get her—“

Qyburn gave Jaime a long look. “Do you think Captain Tarth would appreciate being woken up and brought here as much as she would have appreciated you stumbling into her quarters in your nightgown?”

“But—“

“Whatever it is can wait until morning, when she is due to visit,” said Qyburn coolly, as he found a new needle and reinserted the tubes. “And while I’m glad you found the strength to move around, I suggest rest is still required.” He picked up the clip board at the end of the bed and glanced at it. “Your temperature is still a little high, but much better than yesterday. Good. But what is so urgent that you rip out your morphine?”

Jaime looked up at the doctor. There was something unsettlingly direct in his eyes, like he knew what Jaime was thinking even before he had said anything. “I had a dream…a nightmare. It was rather vivid. I thought I—“  He stopped himself saying anything further. He didn’t want to share his dreams with this odd man.

“Hmm. Not uncommon. Your fever, the situation, what you’ve seen, what you’ve done. It all plays a part. I’ll get you something to help you sleep for a bit longer.”

****

When he woke late that morning, Brienne was indeed sitting beside him, head bent in concentration on the reports she was filling in. She hadn’t noticed him yet and he took the rare moment to watch her undisturbed. Strands of ragged straw-blonde hair escaped from their bun, getting in her eyes. Her broad shoulders filled her shirt, collar pressed to perfection. Above it, he got a glimpse of tanned skin on the nape of her neck, remarkably vulnerable.

She looked at her watch and then to him, surprised to find him awake. “Oh, hello,” she said with a smile.

“Am I keeping you from something, wench?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his sleepy, stubbly face. “I thought you had forgotten me.”

She rolled her eyes as she turned her chair to face him. “I couldn’t get away, I told you. How’s your arm?” She tried to make her tone as bright as the daylight streaming in, but it glanced off him and his dark mood.

“You know, it doesn’t actually matter how many times you ask after it, it still won’t reappear,” he snapped. He watched her smile falter and then fall away, her hands clenched in her lap. _Damn it. He always let his bloody tongue run away from his sense._ “Sorry… I’m sorry. I’m grateful for your concern.”

She didn’t look up. “I had to pull all sorts of strings to even be here because I thought you wanted— so don’t you mock me with platitudes.”

He sighed. “I’m not mocking you. I’m just tired and bitter. Wench—“

“What?” she asked crossly, giving him an infuriated glance.

“Brienne,” he repeated, hoping to mollify her. “Can we start again? I need to talk to you about something.”

She was still for a moment before she gave a sharp nod, though her face had softened a little at his serious tone.

“What you said when I was…I was at my lowest— when you talked to me —”

She reddened and tried to force a laugh into her voice. “Oh that?” she broke in, “oh it was nothing…I was completely ridiculous… I mean, god, I can’t even remember what I said.” She could barely hold his gaze so inept was her lying.

Jaime decided not point that out. “I remember, even if you can’t…your words meant, _mean_ an awful lot… but you also said you knew me, better than you think.”

“Oh yes? I thought I—“ she said, biting her lip and blushing further.

“I’ve got to tell you something. Remember when I barged into the library, into you last Christmas? You knew then what I had done… you confronted me. I deliberately didn’t talk about it afterwards or since because I thought you wouldn’t— it doesn’t matter. I need to tell you what happened…” He suddenly felt hot again and dizzy, and he closed his eyes to concentrate. “I need to tell you what really happened in Northern Ireland.”

“Jaime?” Her voice sounded far off, faint.

He remembered it so clearly, too clearly, even after all these years. “Our squad was a tight knit thing; we’d graduated together, done tours together. We were happy to be back together again. We were still young. And good. We were the best. But our CO was Targaryen…there were tales of his dubious competence flying round even then, but he came from old, respected army family so we had to put up with his odd decisions. And Rossart, our second in command, in charge of explosives, was just as bad.

“They didn’t really see the IRA as a credible threat, always dismissing their guerrilla tactics as the tactics of cowards. Anyway, we were due to search this village after we had a tip off about gun running and caches of weapons. We came under attack as soon as we were spotted. After taking injuries and being beaten back, Targaryen finally realised what kind of situation we were in. He sent everyone off to scout round the village.

“I was left alone with him and Rossart. Our radio had gone down and he was mightily spooked by that. He had Rossart lay timed explosions round the houses…to show them a lesson…burn out the rats, he said. I looked in his eyes and I saw madness. Sheer madness. There were women and children in the village. The recriminations would have killed so many more of our soldiers… I tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t having it. He was about to give the order to Rossart who couldn’t wait to let loose his pyromania…so I shot him. Enough was enough.”

He opened his eyes again, and shifted upwards on the pillow, so he could look at her properly. She was staring at him, arms crossed. He wondered what she thought of him at that moment. He realised he cared what the shy, homely, honourable girl at the edge of his bed thought. If she could see at least _why_ he did it if nothing else, then he wasn’t alone anymore. But if she didn’t understand, couldn’t see beyond this— The breath caught in his lungs and made him cough.

“Say something then, wench. That you hate me, that I’m a bloody liar or worse. Something.”

She cocked her head, knowing full well his forced wit was a false diversion. “Why didn’t you say anything about what happened, why you did what you did? All this time?” she finally asked.

“My word against that of a dead man’s? No witnesses? I had no chance of getting anyone to understand— everyone saw me as a cold blooded killer and that was it. And when I tried to explain to the authorities, they didn’t want to know. They had no right to judge me,” he muttered to himself, “They did nothing to stop him.”

He looked back at her and shrugged. “They offered me a deal – don’t talk about it, take the blows to your career and reputation, and we’ll let you stay in the army. I decided it was worth paying that price.”

“Jaime,” she murmured quietly as she put a gentle hand on his arm. “Why did you tell _me_?”

“They were all here last night, my brother-soldiers. They were blaming me, but you stood next to me. You stayed with me—“ he said haltingly and his voice cracking.

Her big blue eyes clouded over with confusion, a frown puckering her forehead. “I don’t under—“

He stopped trying to find reasons and shrugged. “I dreamed of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback makes the world go round!


	9. Late May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is indulging my love of Brienne here a bit and moves the plot on about an inch, but whatever!
> 
> and thank you so much for your lovely, wonderful comments. my heart skips a beat each time i read them :)
> 
> enjoy!

The hours before Jaime left had been unbearable. Somehow the doctor telling him Jaime that he was now well enough to go home had changed everything. He became so short tempered that each conversation they had ended up in a bickering row. She had given up her attempts at being civil and kept out of his way instead. But then the helicopter had turned up and she felt her heart lurch. Brienne had rushed in only see his bed empty, thinking she had missed him.

“For god’s sake, wench! You sit by my bed for days and then you bloody disappear just when I try to find you,” cried a voice behind her.

“I thought you’d already gone!” she shouted back, more loudly than she intended. A nurse looked up and smirked and she swallowed her annoyance with a mangled sound.

“Oh nearly, so very nearly gone from this fucking hell hole.”

She blanched at his words. “Well don’t let me stop you,” she snapped, turning away.

“That’s not what I meant—“

She snorted and glared at him over her shoulder. “Don’t lie. You go back to your lovely life and I’ll—“ she stopped suddenly, realising her voice was giving her away. Giving away her hurt and fears. But she couldn’t help herself asking the question that had played in her mind for a long time. “I thought we— was it all an act, a pretence at being _nice?_ It must be such a novelty for you… did you enjoy playing the game with stupid naïve Brienne?”

Bitterness filled the room until she could barely breathe.

“No,” said Jaime softly.

“No? I don’t believe you—“ She was cut off when his hand caught hold of hers and pulled her into a corner, away from prying eyes.

“No, I wasn’t playing any games actually. For once, I wasn’t,” he said with barely restrained anger. “And it’s not going to be a _lovely life_. God, Brienne, don’t you see? I’m hardly going to get the warm welcome most injured soldiers get when they go home… I should be used to it by now; it’s after all, the way _we do things._ I can hear my father’s voice now… He hates any form of weakness, emotional or physical. And he didn’t like me before, so god knows what he is going to think of me now.”

Brienne watched his eyes burn and sting into her; his distress ferocious. She didn’t know what she could to. She _wanted_ to pull him close and lean on his cheek and whisper into his ear that he was the strongest man she knew.

“Lannister, you have half a minute,” ordered someone from the doorway.

When Jaime looked back at her, all his fury had dissipated. Her hand was still in his and he squeezed it urgently. “Listen to me. You’re not stupid, and your naivety is perfectly charming. But most of all, you’ve been remarkable. Truly. I wouldn’t be here without you. So this is important – no heroics, wench. You’re quite honourable enough. I want you to come back safe and sound, understand?”

She nodded, feeling stunned but making herself search his face so that she would remember this. 

The light in his eyes dimmed and his grasp turn even tighter. “Bye then, Brienne.”

She could barely get the words out. “Bye.”

Just when she thought he was going to go, his hand moved to her cheek and for one long moment held it with a heart stopping stare of those green eyes of his. Then, before she could do anything— _what could she have said?—_ he turned on his heel and left. She could still feel the warmth of his palm in the silent minutes afterwards, ignoring the fact that it was her blushes that heated her instead.

Thinking back on it, in the long days and longer nights, she sometimes wondered if she’d imagined it, wanted something like that to happen so much that it made her mind go awry. She found herself thinking back on everything that had happened with Jaime, trying to understand, trying to ignore the pit of loneliness that had suddenly reappeared in her chest as she passed the hospital tent and didn’t go in.

After he’d told her what happened in Northern Ireland, he had looked at her with such expectation of her horror. Did he really think that she would have spurned his explanation, his reasons? She’d been shocked of course, but most all she had felt awe at being taken into his confidence. Her of all people, who had been on the outside of everything, now knew Jaime’s eternal secret. He had trusted her, wanted to tell her. When, she wondered, had he started to trust her? When had she started to trust him? Some people wouldn’t care about this minor detail, but she did. She cared desperately. She cared too much, she knew, but why did she have to be different all the time? Why couldn’t she, why shouldn’t she trust him? He had shown himself to be someone who didn’t run away, who stuck by her, who had proved her wrong. Yes, he was annoying and insufferable and had such a sharp tongue she wondered how he didn’t cut himself. And yet, she sighed, and yet he had got under her skin and wasn’t letting go. _She didn’t want him to let go._

It was only in the very darkest hours of night that she allowed herself to think about the fact that he had dreamt of her. Jaime had dreamt of _her_. He hadn’t explained further, but that simple statement was enough for her heart to beat a little faster and her cheeks to blush each time she recalled it. It was ridiculous, she tried to counter. She had clung onto every word Renly had said and now she was doing the same with Jaime and she wasn’t sure her heart could bear any more loss, for it was inevitably going to end that way, wasn’t it? She couldn’t bring herself to speculate on how he felt about her beyond being a mere friend. Her head said she was just a steady dependable soul who provided company but her heart refused to listen; it couldn’t forget the warmth in his eyes, the tenderness in his voice at their parting.

She heaved a long sigh as she turned over in bed, unable to sleep again. She was clearly not normally the subject of dreams; a fact that she was daily reminded of, if not by others then by herself, forced to look in a mirror to check her cap was straight or pull her hair up. She had wanted her actions to be her mirror, her good and true actions to leave an imprint on others, not her size or looks or shyness. It had not taken her long though, once outside the innocence of young childhood, to realise that the world was not likely to be so kind and thoughtful. It was why she had escaped into the army, because actions did count more than words and strength and straightforward merit were searched for ahead of gender and appearance. But even here, her ideal notions about a life of duty and honour were crushed all too often; the innocent were killed just as often as the wicked and the country she swore to protect was evermore ungrateful and dismissive. She loved the army and would do anything for it, but sometimes she wondered if that was enough.

She shook off her self pity when the bright morning rolled around; it was the exhaustion talking, that’s all. She had to focus on the task in hand, for her men’s sake if not her own. As she forced a smile onto her face, Payne handed over a pile of papers for her to look at. Shuffling through them, she spotted the pale blue of an air mail letter. She turned it over with trembling hands and read the name of the sender: _J. Lannister._ Her smile suddenly reached her eyes.


	10. Trinity Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternally grateful to GRRM for both the inspiration and the odd line here and there. 
> 
> Also, before we start...can I just say how AMAZING you are! Seriously, each comment makes me grin manically and squeal in delight. I couldn't do it without you. 
> 
> Indeed, I changed my chapter plan after realising quite how many of you wanted to read the letter. I hope it lives up to your expectations...!
> 
> much love xx

When Jaime arrived back at Casterly, he was thankful to see it. There had been a time when he never thought he would see the family home again. Home to the Lannisters since Henry VII had bequeathed the lands to a faithful lord, the honey yellow stone building overlooked sprawling gardens that had been Jaime’s playground in his youth. To a stranger it appeared almost overwhelming in its grandeur but Jaime knew the secrets that undermined its pretence of ultimate rule; the cubby holes where priests once hid and the secret passages which spawned many reams of gossip downstairs and a room that was supposedly haunted, although it was only Cersei who attested to that tale.

It was Cersei who he found when he first wandered through the house, looking for people. She was sitting in their childhood nursery, now covered with her own children’s toys and drawings. His twin sister, his other half and the only woman he had known, looked as beautiful as ever. Long limbed and slender, she always made sure her hair was brushed until it glowed like polished gold. Her familiar eyes, always so piercing, regarded him from across the room as she swirled a glass of red wine.

“Is this my welcoming party then, Cersei? Where’s Father?” asked Jaime, gesturing around him. Tyrion had told him he would see him in London later. He had laughed over the phone when Jaime suggested he should meet him at Casterly.

Cersei rolled her eyes. “He’s got important meetings all day, but he’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Having important meetings without you?”

Unlike many landed families with their old fashioned attachment to farming and thus near poverty, their father had turned to business to make sure Casterly remained in their hands. Now, Leon & Company ruled in the City and beyond. Cersei had been angling for the top job since she had turned eighteen.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m here because I wanted to see you,” she said, giving him a smile that he knew she only gave him. Setting the glass down, she walked up to him and placed a hand on his cheek. “The children are at school. It’s just me and you.”

Jaime found her hand with his and pressed her palm to his mouth. “Oh yes?” He could smell the wine on her breath.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she purred, reaching for a kiss only to flinch and jerk away when she felt his injured arm on her waist. Disgust flared across her face.

“Christ, Jaime. Keep _that_ away from me,” she hissed. “I didn’t think it was going to be so…grotesque.”

“A grenade exploded in my hand. It wasn’t going to be just a few cuts and bruises,” he said, taking a step towards her and trying to catch her hand again. “I nearly died.”

“If you hadn’t gone out to some godforsaken country then this wouldn’t have happened.”

He snatched his hand back. “It’s my job. I have a duty—”

She came closer again. “Oh Jaime, you are a fool. My golden fool. The army won’t want you now… we think you should come and work for the company… it’s a perfect opportunity to overcome your problems with Father—“

He snorted. “You and him can count your pennies all you like, I’m not doing it.”

“Count pennies? Jaime, I run the European headquarters now. I mean, once Robert died, who else could there be for the role?”

Jaime remembered reading the newspaper gossip columns before he left. They whispered that she should have won an Oscar for her performance as a grieving widow at his funeral; that she had slipped into his office chair while it was still warm; that she had sacked all of Robert’s colleagues the very next day, including his heavily pregnant secretary. He also remembered reading the meek retractions after the Lannisters had threatened to take everyone to court for slander.

She put a hand on his chest, wrapping her long fingers in the fabric to pull him close. “And that means I can find you a position where we can work together. You’ll be with me all day…” she trailed her fingers down towards his trousers, “…and all night.”

It took Jaime a moment to realise he didn’t want what she was offering. “Stop it,” he said, pulling her back up.

“Come on, we’ll go to my room—“

“No, I meant what I said.”

She curled her lip at his refusal. “Sure you didn’t lose your cock as well as your arm out there?”

“Cersei—“

She sat back down with a thump, and reached for the glass and bottle. “Get out,” she snapped. “Go on, get out. I can’t bear the sight of you.”

Jaime gave her a long look and left. He needed a drink himself. Slipping into the library, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Collapsing into the old leather armchair, he took a deeper drink. After months without alcohol, the liquid made him cough and splutter, but he forced it down. He never should have expected anything else from his sister. He had seen the look in her eyes; the look that had pulled him to her for so long, but now just cut him, sharp as claws. He drank and wondered why it had all changed; wondered why she had become hard and cold and then wondered if she hadn’t been like that for a long time. As the whiskey dulled his senses, he drank to forget, he drank to fill the loneliness, he drank to drown his hurt.

****

Lord Tywin Lannister looked Jaime up and down and sighed. It was all far too similar to the many times Jaime had stood there as a young boy, suffering his father’s disappointed gaze when his school reports did not match up to Lannister expectations.  Unlike then, Jaime now had a splitting hangover and was in no mood to persuade his father that he had tried, he really had.

“Jaime, said Lord Tywin coolly. “So glad you could find the time to see me.”

Jaime had kept him waiting, sleeping off the drink late into the day. “Yes, well I’m glad you could spare the time.”

Lord Tywin looked up from the large desk at Jaime’s sarcastic tone. “You’re not dying and I had important matters to attend to.”

Jaime laughed bitterly. “No, I’m not dead. Though perhaps it might have been easier for everyone if I had died out there.”

His father stared at Jaime’s stump and his mouth grew taut. Jaime noticed the same undisguised flash of repulsion appear in his eyes as his sister’s. Was it so hard for a father to give his son the slightest sliver of compassion?

“Now that you’re back,” continued Lord Twyin, as though he hadn’t heard Jaime, “I have a proposition—“

Jaime sighed and slumped into a chair. “Cersei’s already tried to enthral me into joining the firm, didn’t she say? I didn’t want to join after school and I don’t want to now.”

Lord Tywin glanced at Jaime’s arm again. “You cannot serve in the army without a hand—”

“I can,” Jaime interrupted. “And I will. They’ll find me a place after I’ve recovered… I have a duty—”

“You do.” Lord Tywin leaned forward across the desk, his eyes boring into Jaime. “A duty to this family. You are the heir to Casterly and the firm is the foundation of that. That is where you should be—”

“No.” Jaime had heard all that he could stand. No, more than he could stand. He was sick of it, sick of his father, his sister, sick of the whole bloody business. “No. No. No. No. No. How many times must I say no before you’ll hear it? You took Casterly away from me when I joined the army. Did you think you could use it to bribe me to leave it? I don’t want Casterly, and I don’t want the firm.”

“You are my son—”

“I am an officer of the British Army. A captain of the Coldstream Guard. And that’s all I mean to be!”

Lord Tywin sat back and did not speak. Jaime refused to look away, not this time. He stared at the old man, challenging him to make the first move. Cersei should have been his heir, not him. She could carry on his ruthless reputation in the blink of an eye.

Eventually, his father spoke. “You are not my son.” He turned his face away, as if Jaime ceased to exist from that moment on.

Jaime sat still for a half a second. Was it odd that he felt nothing but relief? Shouldn’t he have felt upset at his father’s rejection of him or at least, angriness at his inheritance being snatched away? The only answer he found inside himself was no.

As he left the room, he found his sister hanging around outside.

“Haven’t you got anything better to do than spy on me?” asked Jaime, suddenly feeling unutterably weary.

She put on a tight little smile. “How did it go?”

“God, you really are a—“ he stopped himself. She wasn’t worth it anymore. “It’s all yours sweet sister, if that’s what you’re worried about. The whole bloody thing. Oh, and yes. I’ve also taken over Tyrion’s spot as number one persona non grata in the Lannister rankings.”

“Why?” Though her face remained as controlled as ever, he heard the faint desperation in her voice.

“I’ve been disowned. I’m now a Lannister in name only, as if that’s some kind of honour.”

“Jaime, why are you being like this?”

Anger overwhelmed him. “Me?! The only thing I’ve done is said no, forgetting of course, that no-one ever says no to that man in there. I suppose I should be grateful that I’m not getting the same treatment as his rivals…“ He stepped forward, grabbing her shoulder to whisper in her ear. “You think you can play and win at his games, don’t you? You think you’ve got him wrapped round your little finger, just like you had me? You couldn’t be more wrong. He will never make you his true heir.”

“You’re a liar. I’m his daughter! He’s promised to hand over the business—“

“You’re only where you are because he loathes Tyrion and I wasn’t around. That’s all. Ask him yourself what he really thinks of you.”

“You’re wrong!” she screamed at him, escaping his grasp. “Wrong!”         

Jaime watched her fury change her striking features into an ugly and wretched farce. She was still raging at him as he climbed the stairs to start packing.

****

Sitting in Tyrion’s study the next day, he gazed out the window at the rain. The flat had been Jaime’s bolthole for years; Tyrion had had it since he left home and always gave Jaime a wry smile and a pointed remark when he found Jaime had let himself in yet again. This time had been different though, his little brother offering the first words of sympathy and understanding he’d heard since leaving Afghanistan. Since leaving Brienne. She was the reason he was sat at the desk, staring into space and listening to the silence.

He picked up a pen in his left hand, but it felt so foreign that he nearly dropped it. Clutching it harder, he tried writing his name. It was legible, but barely. As he flung the pen down in annoyance, Brienne’s calm voice appeared in his mind. _No one is good at something the first time, Jaime._

“I know that, thank you very much,” he abruptly said out loud.

_Oh god, he was going mad. Talking to himself. Talking to a memory of a girl a thousand miles away._ He sat down and picked up the pen again and hovered over the blank sheet of paper. He did want to write. He wanted to write to her. He took a deep breath and tried again. And again. And again. It was hours later before he had something that he was half happy with. Flexing his stiff fingers, he wrote the final version of the letter.

_Dearest Brienne,_

_If you can read this, then I’m glad. My left hand is stubbornly refusing to listen to orders, but typing it would be a cop out and I need to learn so here we are._

_I hope you are well and have put yourself back in your CO’s good books now that I’m not there to distract you. I hope young Payne is looking out for you (you say it’s the other way round, but I’m not so sure…) and I am sure your gunners are doing a fine job under your command._

_Life here has been busy in its own tiring way. The doctors say I’m on the mend. And my family – well, it was as hellish as I thought it would be. But I said what needed to be said and I’m surprisingly alright with it. It’s too complicated to explain here. I’ll tell you the whole story one day, if you care to hear it. Suffice to say, I’ve changed too much for them for it to ever be like it was before. It’s not just losing half my arm; it’s something more fundamental.—_

Jaime stopped suddenly. He knew what he wanted to write next, but a lifetime of secrets made him hesitate about being so direct. He was so used to lying that the truth made him falter. As he stumbled, a shadow of a doubt crept in. Was it too much, too quickly? Didn’t she have enough to cope with without the tedious thoughts of a cripple? He closed his eyes for a moment of peace but all he could think about was how honest her eyes had been every time he looked at her. He took a breath and continued.

_—This letter is already getting far too long and boring, but I only have one more thing to say._

_Before I met you, I was so wrapped up in myself and my own selfish needs that it is no wonder you thought me intolerable. Looking back, I realise I had become someone I didn’t recognise, didn’t even like anymore._

_You changed that. You changed me._

_It’s harder to be the man I want to be without you by my side._

_I miss you._

_Jaime_

He went out in the pouring rain to post it. His fingers hung onto the edge of the letter, stark against the bright red. It wasn’t too late to take it back and rip it up, if he wanted to. Take it all back. But he couldn’t. He let go and heard the faint thump at it landed.


	11. St Swithin's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies in advance for ending on an angsty note here. just felt it was all going a little too smoothly for the pair, but it leaves lots of scope for what comes next ;)
> 
> btw, gloriously happy to see so many people sticking with me on this - YOU ARE THE BEST!
> 
> on with the show...!

In the loud claustrophobic darkness of the plane, Brienne re-read the letters Jaime had sent her over the two months of their separation. She could hear him laughing and joking as clear as if he was sitting next to her. She knew the conversations that filled her mind off by heart, but there was something poignant in seeing his handwriting gradually change from a childish, jerky scribble to something more fluid, if still a little uncontrolled. She always felt a surge of pride at his efforts, at his determination to overcome this hurdle. His first letter was the most fragile, dog-eared despite her best attempts at keeping it pristine. It was the one she turned to most of all. Each time she picked it up and read his words, there was a rush of warmth through her core and suddenly the world looked brighter. The first time she’d read it had been different though; it had changed everything.

She really hadn’t expected Jaime to have the time or even the inclination to write to her, except for a line or two to keep her up to date with his recovery, perhaps. It had been such a surprise to find it, it took her breath away. But as she went to open it, she hesitated. By the next breath, worry had pulled the smile from her face and she felt utterly sick. Could this be just another rebuff, only made kinder by the fact that she didn’t have to look in his eyes and see his pity? An easy means of extracting himself from her life to save him the discomfort of realising it was a mistake? Had she just been someone when he would have taken anyone? She stared at the pale blue missive, afraid. Dreams full of hope had sustained her throughout her life and even more so now. Even if her dreams were wrong, completely wrong, could she bring herself to topple them? But what if it wasn’t like that at all? What if Jaime felt something— she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine what he might think of her.

She realised she couldn’t stand not knowing. Biting her lip hard to distract herself from her rapid heartbeat, she carefully undid the letter. She had promised herself that she would read it slowly, from the top, but it was no use. Her gaze skipped down the letter, taking in his enquiries after her, what was happening with his family and then— and then—

_You changed that. You changed me._

_It’s harder to be the man I want to be without you by my side._

_I miss you._

_Jaime_

A strange keening gasp passed her lips as she stared at the words, which began to blur. Rubbing away the tears, she sat there unable to do much else but read and re-read the letter until it sank in. _I miss you too. More than I could ever say._ Jaime’s touching and genuine words seeped into her heart and mind, finding the cracks and scars and soothing them like a balm. She hadn’t ever been important to anyone, except her father. No one had ever truly needed her as a person, not really. But Jaime’s words, his deliberate seeking of her, made her heart fill with pure happiness. _I need you too. More than you would ever believe._

As the plane lurched, she was brought back into reality. Except that getting that letter, and all the others, hadn’t been a thought up escape from real life, it hadn’t been a dream of a girl who thought this would never ever happen to her. It had been real, real as the thin pieces of paper in her hands and the excitement building in her chest.

****

The sun was only beginning to set when the time the plane landed, even though it was late in the day. Dusty and dishevelled, she watched her men disembark. Behind her were the cheers and tears of their families, waiting at the edge of the tarmac. Men dropped their bags and sprinted to the open arms of their children and wives. She breathed a sigh of relief. Another tour over. Lives lost. Lives saved. She was back, job done.

As she too headed for the crowds, she searched for a familiar face. Jaime had said that he was going to be there and now she wanted to see him more than anything. A flutter of nerves made themselves known in the pit of her stomach. She swept her gaze over the crowds again and still didn’t see him. She tried to ignore the rising lump of hurt and disappointment in her throat at his absence.  “He’s probably got stuck in traffic, or busy—” she muttered to herself. “It’s fine, it’s fine—“

“How the hell is it that you’ve managed to fit more freckles onto your face?”

She turned at the voice.

“Jaime,” she breathed. She couldn’t help but match his grin as he strode up to her.

“Hello wench,” he said, pulling her into a bear-hug. It was so unexpected that it took her a moment to hug him back, her arms awkwardly stretching round him. She breathed in his smell of soap and sun, sensed his strength despite his leanness under his shirt, but most of all felt the warmth in his solid grasp. When they broke apart a long moment later, she blushed at the glittering green gaze that went right through her. 

“You look well, b-b-better,” she stuttered out, horribly aware of the growing silence between them, of his searching look. He did look better, but so different. Gone was the gaunt, haunted expressions that had plagued him in hospital, gone were the military fatigues. He had let his hair grow out slightly and the stubble she had seen in the hospital was growing into a beard, touched with grey. It suited him, she thought.

“And you’re in one piece?”

Brienne glanced down at her grimy uniform, rough hands and everything else and shrugged. “Just about. It was horrible just before we left – sandstorms and so hot…” She placed a hand on his bandaged stump. “But what about your arm? You said there was a prosthetic—“ She watched him stiffen and glance down at her hand. She moved it away quickly, wondering if that was too much, even now.

“It’s useless,” he said with a sigh.

“And hurts when you put it on, I imagine?”

Jaime gave a sharp nod.

“Then don’t wear it. If you can manage without?”

“Getting there. My left hand is stronger.”

“Your writing’s got so much better, really it has—“ she stopped and frowned. “Sorry, that sounded really patronising. I didn’t mean it like that—“

“Don’t be.” He cocked his head to catch her gaze again. “At least I know you care.”

Her blush reappeared. _Oh god, it was one thing reading words on a page, quite another watching Jaime’s lips move as he said them._ Before she could think about a response, an overwhelming yawn overtook her. “Gosh, excuse me—“

“You only had to say if I was boring you, wench,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“No! No… I’m just tired and jet lagged, sorry—“

“Glad to see you still can’t take a joke,” he murmured, smiling. “Now, how are you getting home?” He looked round at the dispersing crowds.

“Oh, Payne’s organised a driver, bless him. I should probably find him,” she said, picking up her bags and looking round. She glanced at Jaime and took a decision. She had survived a tour. She could do this. “Err… I don’t know what your plans are… err… but I could give you a lift into London? Only if it suits obviously.”

To her joy, his response was immediate. “That would be grand, wench. Thanks.”

She gave him a pleased, shy smile. “Good.”

They finally spotted the boy and headed away from the airfield to the car. “Thanks for everything, Payne,” said Brienne to the young corporal just before they set off. “You did well. I’m going to put in a good word for you back at base. You earned it.” Payne blushed and beamed and stuttered a thank you very much ma’am.

“You’re far too soft on that boy, you know,” said Jaime as he slid into the seat next to her.

She gave him a sideways glance and shrugged. “You don’t need to make someone fear you for them to respect you. Praise should be given where it’s due.”

Jaime returned her glance and raised an eyebrow. “He is very protective of you.”

“Oh, I suppose—“

“Believe me, he is. He nearly saw me off once or twice, but not quite.”

“I’m glad he didn’t stop you—“ The words slipped out before she could think and she froze. Feeling hot and bothered by Jaime’s sudden twitch of his lips, Brienne rolled down the window and looked out. The soft heavy air of evening rushed in; full of the smells of summer, of freshly cut grass and lingering honeysuckle. The sun was just touching the horizon and bathed the countryside in a vivid orange glow. She took a deep breath and gazed at the view. It was the end of a perfect day. “Oh, it’s just lovely, isn’t it?” she exclaimed.

He broke into a laugh at her enthusiasm. “Yes. I suppose it is. It’s the famed, but rarely spotted English summer, I think it’s meant to be idyllic.”

“Idyllic… yes. You forget how things can actually be as nice and simple as this…“ She turned back to Jaime. “I mean, life is more complicated, of course it is, but sometimes—“

Another huge yawn overtook her. It was made all the more embarrassing when Jaime cracked up.

“Oh god, stop laughing! I can’t help it, you brute!”

“Me?! I’m not the one yawning her head off… bloody rude! Didn’t they teach you manners on your little island?”

She opened her mouth and then shut it hastily when she caught the glint in his eye. “No, you can’t provoke me. Not this time,” she said, tilting her chin obstinately towards him

“Spoilsport.”

They fell into a peaceful silence and for once, Brienne felt comfortable in Jaime’s presence. It felt oddly normal; no need for awkward conversations or stilted remarks. The quietness of the drive was making her even sleepier though and as her head lolled back, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She shifted once and then twice, trying to find a more comfortable position. She was too tall, she thought despairingly, always too tall.

“Come here, wench,” said Jaime, his voice making its way faintly to her in her half doze. She felt his arm come round her shoulders and pull her into him, so that her head rested easily on his shoulder. Had she been more awake, she would have flinched and made some horrible excuse not to take up his offer. But she was tired, and he was comfortable and she didn’t want to move away at all.

****

In what seemed half a minute later, she was being woken up by Jaime with a gentle shake of her arm. “We’re here.”

“Oh right—“ she mumbled, dazed after having slept for so long. She became suddenly aware of how close she had been to him, her hand resting on his leg, head buried in the crook of his neck. Sitting up sharply, she saw Jaime grimace as he flexed his arm, stiff after the long journey holding her. “Oh god, Jaime. You should have pushed me off, I’m too heavy—“

He rolled his eyes. “Give over, I’m not completely decrepit. And I liked you snoring softly on my shoulder, believe it or not.”

“I do not snore,” she replied, trying to ignore the fact that he said he liked it.

“Now is not the time for that particular argument. Come on, we can’t stay here all night.”

It was dark now outside, but warm and still. The night time quietness made the jangle of her keys seem horrendously loud. Finally, she got the door open.

“I don’t have any milk for tea, but I could probably find something if you want—“ she said, as she stepped into the corridor, wondering what the hell she would do if he did want to come in. She felt ashamedly relieved when Jaime didn’t follow her over the threshold, and thankful for once that he could read her mind all too well.

“You’re knackered, it’s late. I’ve got a physio appointment in the morning,” he said, pulling a face. “But perhaps I could come round later tomorrow?“

“Y-y-yes, that’s fine. I’ve got nothing planned, as usual.”

“Good. Night then,” he said softly.

The shadows cast by the porch hid both of their faces, but she was glad of the darkness and its secrecy. “J-Jaime? Thank you for coming to meet me off the plane. It meant a lot to me.”

She heard him sigh, and move closer to her again.  “Brienne…” he muttered. “You shouldn’t thank me. I was there because I wanted to be there, it wasn’t a chore…”

Brienne stared at him for a moment. “I-I-I have never had anyone to meet me off a tour. My father’s too frail to travel. There’s no-one else who would bother. So yes, I should thank you.”

His eyes flashed at her, glinting furiously in the gloom, before he gave a sad sharp laugh. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No, don’t say that,” murmured Brienne, frowning. She longed to brush her fingers over his cheek, to show him how wrong he was. But she just couldn’t, her hands balling into fists by her side instead.

“It’s true,” said Jaime, sitting abruptly on her front step, head in hand. “You think you met a better man off the plane, didn’t you? One striving for something he lost… my so-called honour perhaps?” He gave another bark of scornful laughter. “If it were only that simple. No, I’m not that man. How can I be when there’s still a part of me that hankers for what went before, for the life that I used to have, because it was easier then, because I knew who I was?”

Hesitantly, she sat down next to him, pulling her knees to her chin. She could smell the dust of Afghanistan on her clothes. Coming back seemed years ago already. She thought back to the hug he had given her and wondered if she’d been wrong about everything after all.

“I think it’s normal to feel like that,” she said carefully. “It’s not easy to start again.”

“Christ, Brienne—“ He stood, and started pacing up and down the pavement. “How can you be so patient with me? So decent? It’s infuriating.”

She shrugged grudgingly under his gaze and looked down at her boots. _Patience was a hard lesson learnt, not a natural trait. And decency? Her decency was practised in the hope that it would inspire others to it._

“I need to explain something to you. This is quite possibly the worst moment, but I can’t take another day with this hanging over me,” said Jaime, with a hesitant beat to his voice.

She looked up, confusion creasing her face. “I don’t understand… if this is about Northern Ireland, I told you I understood. I don’t judge you for your actions.”

An agonised expression settled on his face and then it was him who couldn’t hold her gaze. “I know,” he said softly. “I know. But this is a different— I need to tell you _this_ because it’s not fair if I don’t. I don’t want to keep things from you, ever. But now, seeing you again… watching you sleep in the car, I don’t think I can. I can’t bear the thought of you not forgiving me.”

“What could be so terrible?” There was an edge to her voice that surprised her. Disappointment and confusion made her jaw set hard. _It was happening again, wasn’t it? Renly. Now Jaime. Always the same. Despite everything._

He looked away, out into the night. “It’s to do with my sister.”

“Your sister? Cersei?” Brienne remembered her from the Christmas party where she had escaped into the library. She was Jaime in female form. Blonde, beautiful. Twins. She’d watched them dance and found herself wondering what it would be like to be in the arms of a handsome man who gazed so adoringly at his partner.

“We crossed a line. It started before I can even remember, seeking each other out when Father had been angry or had left us again. It somehow got from comforting one another to something more, something we shouldn’t have done…“ His voice, very small and unsure, petered out.

_Oh god. They were—_   Brienne was a complete novice when it came to these matters, but she knew enough. Knew enough to understand what Jaime was hinting at. Her heart squeezed so painfully that she couldn’t breathe. _Of course he wanted that life back. She was nothing compared to Cersei. They fitted together. She fitted with nothing._

He kneeled in front of her, trying to catch her gaze as she remained frozen. “Somewhere in Afghanistan, I realised I didn’t want that anymore, not her. Only you—“

Brienne stood up suddenly, taking a step back as a wave of exhausted dizziness hit her. She felt like she’d not slept for days, her mind too slow and soft to keep up with what had just happened, to see anything beyond her scuffed boots. _Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl._

Jaime followed her up, putting a hand on her arm to steady her. “Brienne, please say something—“

She jerked away from his touch. “I can’t— I-I-I just can’t.” She forced herself to take one step and then another until she was in her flat again. Jaime was still standing there, watching her with a desperate look. She shut the door on him and felt the tears well up and crash.


	12. Apollo 11 lifts off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! What a week for Jaime x Brienne feels! And loving the huge amount of fic that's been flooding the internet as a result... here's my contribution to the fic pile and the feels schloop :)
> 
> Again, can I just saying how freaking amazing you are with all your fabulous comments?! It makes my heart sing and I cannot thank you enough. 
> 
> Caveat - I find writing Jaime's pov hard. But I hope I've not strayed too far from the character. If you think I have, please let me know. It's the only way I can get better.

Jaime groaned when he saw Tyrion in the kitchen. Normally his little brother would be at work as a columnist for Private Eye, writing some outrageous satire just this side of a court case but it was just Jaime’s luck that he was here instead. Jaime had planned to move out weeks ago, but it always seemed too much effort. Anyway, he enjoyed his brother’s company most of the time. He always had; they were more similar than the rest of the family cared to admit. When they were children, Jaime had defended Tyrion from every slight or tease or look. Now Tyrion could defend himself and they were too cynical for their own good, but they still shared a laugh and conversation despite their different lives.  

“Looking rough, Jaime,” remarked Tyrion cheerfully, glancing up from a magazine he was idly flicking through.

Jaime grunted something as he went to the fridge to find something that would lift his hangover. He thought whiskey, and lots of it, would be the only way to cope with had had happened last night. It hadn’t worked. His dreams had been full of her and her sad eyes, her flinches when he tried to reach for her. There was a sharp moment when he remembered her now, so sharp that it cut through his foggy head like a well honed dagger. _Brienne. What have I done?_

“…Jaime!” shouted Tyrion.

Jaime was wrenched from his thoughts and realised he was just hanging on the fridge door, staring at nothing.

“Sit down. Swallow these—“ Tyrion jumped off his chair and rifled through a drawer. He shut it with a bang that made Jaime wince and chucked the paracetamol over to him.

“Why are you even here?” continued Tyrion as Jaime gulped down the pills with a tepid mug of coffee. “And in this state? Wasn’t Brienne coming home yesterday?”

Tyrion knew about Brienne. Jaime hadn’t deliberately kept it a secret at first, but didn’t talk about her either. He didn’t want to; not in embarrassment but with the thought that she was like a mirage – walk towards her and she would disappear. Telling someone about her was the same. It would make it real, something full of expectations, when Jaime wasn’t even sure it what that reality was. That had lasted until Tyrion had returned early one time and found Jaime in his study, scrunched up bits of paper round his feet. Jaime had shrugged it off then as only a letter to a friend, but Tyrion had raised his eyebrows and muttered something about putting in an awful lot of effort for a _friend_ and anyway, when did he start having friends?

So Jaime had told him about her, a pared down version of what happened in Afghanistan. Even that had been hard. How could Jaime explain that without revealing everything? Tyrion hadn’t pushed further, but from the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth, Jaime knew he understood that there was something more to it than friendship, that there was something important about this Brienne. Jaime himself had taken the weeks of her absence to really recognise that fact; to have his feelings develop into something tangible inside him, a warmth that flared each time he thought of her, missed her, dreamed of her.

Yesterday had built that fire to its greatest intensity yet. And it hadn’t been dampened by the events of last night, he realised sometime in amidst the long hours that had passed since. No, it was too fierce to be snuffed out and he was grateful for that. But in truth, he hadn’t expected Brienne to react like that to what he had tried to explain. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that it had hurt. Really hurt. It hadn’t been easy telling her about Cersei, but it had been the _right thing to do._ Doing the right thing is what he had always believed, held onto tight when everything seemed insurmountable. But with every rule, there was an exception, a weakness that buried its way into that source of strength. Cersei had not been right. Brienne was. He couldn’t let himself fall back into his old habits for the mere reason that it was easier. His reward would be Brienne, he hoped. _Change yourself and keep her_. But hope inevitably led to optimism and then to naivety; had he really imagined that this would be different, that this might, just might, have a happy ending? 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Jaime sullenly.

Tyrion snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, not talking about things always works out well in this family, doesn’t it?”

Jaime caught Tyrion’s look and groaned again. “I tried that. That’s why I’m here, feeling like death warmed up. So don’t you lecture me about _talking about things._ ”

“Did you two have an argument or something?” asked Tyrion, his interest piqued.

“No. no…” Visions of her face, her flinch wrenched themselves across his mind.  “We were dropped off at her flat… and then—“ he sighed. “I decided to tell her about something. She didn’t take it very well and shut the door on me.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, a frown settling on his forehead. “What the hell did you say?”

Jaime’s gaze dropped away, guilt written across his features. “Cersei.”

“You didn’t? Jaime, tell me didn’t?”

Jaime looked up. “Tyrion… I had to. I _had_ to. When I met her off the plane, something snapped inside of me. I can’t lie to her. I won’t. She’s too innocent for that.”

“But not too innocent for you to tell her about your sordid affair with your _sister_? Christ, Jaime. You really take the biscuit. Unbelievable.” Tyrion flung his arms up in fury before jumping down from his chair. He started pacing up and down while Jaime looked on, feeling increasingly helpless.

“From what I can gather, this girl is the best thing to happen to you since… well, since forever. And you tell her that? No bloody wonder she slammed the door in your face. It’s a thought I’ve had many times every time you and Cersei— ugh, you brought this on yourself.”

Jaime bristled at Tyrion’s tone of voice. “Can you imagine if she found out by some other means? It would be a thousand times worse. I couldn’t bear that.”

Tyrion turned on him, a grimace turning his face dark. “Oh well done. That’s alright then. You feel better about yourself. Woopdeedoo. You really are a selfish bastard. And where’s Brienne in all this? She’s suddenly found herself in the company of an incestuous, idiotic man who dumps all this on her.”

Jaime jerked as if he’d been physically struck. “I know! Believe me, I know I’ve messed this up. It’s been hammered home by myself all night, thank you very much.”

Tyrion tutted his annoyance. “Well, that’s one thing I suppose. But really, the waves of self pity coming off you are sickening. You’re not the victim here.”

Jaime held his tongue. His brother was right, of course. Tyrion had had his fair share of complicated relationships; Jaime had only had the one, but it was very _very_ complicated and did nothing to prepare him for anything normal, anything that didn’t involve causing damage to everyone involved, the destruction rippling out to touch even those who least deserved it.

“Please tell me you’re going to sort this out? I don’t think I could manage with you all love-sick and hanging round like a wet weekend,” said Tyrion, with a longsuffering look.

Jaime clenched his jaw, ignoring the taunt. “Of course I will sort this out. I’m just thinking about how—”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “It’s not going to happen if you just sit there. You want her? Go get her!”

****

Jaime knocked on her door. He realised his hand was shaking and clenched it tight. Silence. He tried again. This time, the door opened slowly to reveal Brienne, eyes rubbed red and face wan. A baggy t-shirt and jeans that had seen far better days made her seem even younger than she was. _Those sad eyes again. Not angry. Just upset and shocked._ He tried a smile but her gaze dropped and it slipped off his lips.

“Hello,” he said quietly.

“H-hello.” Her voice was hoarse.

“You didn’t expect me to turn up here, did you?”

Brienne quailed at the question. _Wench, if you think I wouldn’t fight to get you back then you are sorely mistaken._ She ducked her head to avoid answering.  

“Can I come in?” he asked.

She faltered but only for a moment. “Of course,” she said and stepped aside.

He allowed himself to feel a modicum of relief. _Over one hurdle_. She went into her tiny, though immaculate kitchen, where she flicked on the kettle. He leaned on the door frame, watching her unthinkingly go through the process of making tea. She was working hard not to look at him, her lip fiercely bitten each time she was forced to come near. The sunlight was streaming through; the day hot already. He could hear the faint sounds of children playing next door. It all seemed incredibly normal but it jarred against the atmosphere within. It took him a second to realise he was wrong. _No, this is normal actually. Normal people have tensions and problems and dips as well as highs. Normal people have rows, regrets…reconciliations._

Their fingers touched as she passed the tea to him and she gave him a startled look of anguish before she fled into the sitting room and sat on the sofa. She pulled absent-mindedly at her pony tail, fidgeting more than ever as she curled her legs under her. He studied the mug in his hand. _She remembers how I take it._ An ache settled in him, his arm throbbing more than it had done for a while. Tyrion would have said this was guilt. It was, but there was something more to it – a sense of failing her that he hadn’t felt for anyone for years. Before, he would have shrugged it off, buried it deep. Not this time.

“I know I hurt you last night. It makes me feel terrible,” said Jaime, turning to face her. _I’ve have to begin somewhere. Pull us out of this hell._

A flicker of blue came and went as she glanced at him and then away. _At least she was listening. Last chance, Jaime. Last chance. Do not mess this up._

He took a deep breath. “Brienne, I’m sorry about all of this. I realise I have literally the most appalling sense of timing.” He moved to sit next to her, leaving a deliberately large gap between them.

“I don’t blame you,” she interrupted, “if you want it back… I couldn’t ever be like her.” Her voice tight, forced, and in pain with none of careful consideration that usually highlighted her words.

He gaped at her in disbelief. A flash of protective anger burned through him. “Stop it. Right now. You’re the most selfless person I’ve met but this martyring yourself for my feelings? This torturing yourself with ridiculous comparisons that mean nothing to me? I don’t want you to be like Cersei. Not in a million years. Is that what you really think?”

Brienne’s knuckles whitened, her blonde lashes fluttering at his outburst. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then shut it abruptly.

He moved closer, his voice quietening again. “I told you about her because it’s not something I could just ignore even if I wanted to. It’s been too long to even imagine it hasn’t changed me, hasn’t affected me in all sorts of ways— I wanted you to understand why I’ve turned out like this—

“But I can’t bear to talk about her a bloody moment longer… God, Brienne, why do you think I wrote you those letters, met you when you got back?” His heart jumped. “I want to be with you, if you’ll have me. Good, gentle you who’s saved me from myself more times than I can even remember.”

Brienne looked up at him then. A homely face, with far too many freckles and a crooked nose above a slightly gap-toothed mouth, but all that didn’t matter, not when her eyes were so soft, so strong and gazing at him with the acceptance and understanding he’d searched for last night, forever.

“Oh, Jaime— I’m so sorry!” she whispered. All of a sudden, she was wiping away tears with hard swipes of her hands. “When you told me… my mind just stopped working…I’m sorry I pushed you away…” She took a deep breath, finding a strength from somewhere. “I just couldn’t believe that you…me… but now… you’ve saved me too, Jaime.”  

He reached for the strands of hair that had escaped her pony tail and wiped them away from her wet cheek. She gasped at his touch, gentle as it was, but only stared at him with undisguised relief. _Bloody hell, did you really think I hadn’t fallen for you?_ He passed his fingers over her cheek again, his thumb outlining her bottom lip. Shaking her head, she pulled his hand away.

“I don’t know… I haven’t ever…not properly,” she said, abashed. A red flush flooded her face, even to the tips of her ears. 

He cocked his head, squeezing her hand in reassurance. He did it because she needed it, but he knew all too well that he needed her to show him the way too. “We’ll work all this out together. As slow as you like. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Really?” she asked, her gaze searching his. Her eyes had cleared like the morning after a storm. _No-one has ever looked at me with such hope. I won’t ever let you down._

“Yes, wench,” he murmured as he leant forward to kiss her softly. “Really.” 


	13. July passes by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here you, all my lovely readers - more fluff, and some internal wrangling of emotions!
> 
> once again, your comments and feedback are just WONDERFUL and mean a helluva lot to me so THANK YOU. 
> 
> special shout out to tosquinha for her amazing sketches of some of the scenes from evenings - find them here:  
> http://thisisgoldstrawcalling.tumblr.com/post/51586440779/so-the-wonderful-tosquinha-over-on
> 
> ENJOY!

His first kiss was a mere press on her lips but it meant everything to her and when she kissed him back she couldn’t think of anything else she wanted more. He was gentler than she could have imagined, could have thought any man to be with her. They breathed each other in, the pads of their fingers finding places to hold and explore, pulling each other closer still as their kisses became a little less measured, a little more instinctive and raw. She felt his weight on her, the way his hand reached round to touch her hair, the faintest bite on her bottom lip that made her gasp and want to try the same. A rumble escaped him when she did so, and her grasp on his shirt strengthened in return. Murmuring her name, he started pressing kisses down her jaw, onto her neck and she arched into him before she realised what she was doing—

Brienne put a hand on his chest and pulled away, her breath and heart and thoughts well out of control. She glanced shyly at Jaime who seemed to be having the same problems as she was catching his breath. His eyes glittered, sharp notes of light making the green sing.

“Sorry… I…s’all a bit new…sorry,” she trailed off, finding it a hundred times harder than usual to put her thoughts into words. She’d been trying to keep up with each new step, half a beat behind Jaime, but then it had all got too much.

“No, my fault… getting carried away. There’s no need for you to apologise,” he said, gently reproaching her.

She gave him an embarrassed shrug. “A defence mechanism.” Jaime’s eyes clouded over and she realised how that must have sounded to him. “Oh no, it’s not to do with you, with this, not really. Just a hard habit to break after a lifetime of saying sorry for everything, whether I mess it up or not.”

“You didn’t mess _that_ up, believe me.” His gaze flicked down to her mouth and back up, a smile playing on his lips.

The ridiculousness of the situation bubbled through her and she buried her head in her hands. “That was unbelievably cheesy, Lannister,” she groaned with laughter. She didn’t know whether it was her lack of sleep showing, or the fact that her blood seemed to be tingling like it was on fire or the glint  in his eyes that made her swallow hard, but she felt nigh on hysterical.

He snorted, leaning back on the sofa. “True though, _Tarth_. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” He caught her incredulous glance at his blunt statement. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I don’t play games. Not about this sort of thing. _”_

For all his reassurance, there was something small and hard in her that refused to give up all her suspicion. Lies and bets and bullying had left scars on the joke that had been her few tentative steps into any kind of romantic relationship. Scars that screamed a warning whenever her heart threatened to act foolishly, threatened to forget what had happened before. But despite all her attempts to protect herself, her heart was betraying her even now. She let it because she couldn’t ignore the fact that she had wanted to the same for months, hadn’t hoped for it, hadn’t dreamed of it.

“It’s just difficult to take in,” she explained after a while. “Everything’s turned upside down since I got back…”

He pulled her closer again so that she leaned into his shoulder. She could feel his slow breaths on her hair, his heartbeat under her hand. “To think I nearly ruined everything.”

She looked up to him, saw his downcast eyes darken. “You didn’t, Jaime,” she said simply before reaching to press a kiss on his mouth. She didn’t mean for it to become as intense as it did but as his arms circled her waist, it was there again; this power she had suddenly acquired to make his breath hitch, to speed up the beat of his pulse beneath her fingers, to tease his tongue with hers. She felt clumsy and inept in her attempts but that somehow it mattered less and less—

This time it was Jaime who pulled away. “Christ, Brienne— “ He swallowed hard and shifted under her hands. “This is… really…too good. But I think we should just—“ He glanced down at his lap, pink flooding his cheeks. “Taking it slow and all that.”

Her mouth gaped when she realised what he was saying. “Oh. _Oh._ I see. I… I didn’t mean—“ She shook her head in mute disbelief, standing suddenly. She felt blindingly hot; hotter than the sun streaming through the windows would normally make her.

Jaime was quick to follow her up, composure just about regained. “Look, why don’t we go out? Enjoy the weather?”

She nodded fitfully. “Err…just give me a second to sort myself out,” she breathed, slipping into the bathroom.

Splashing water on her face, she looked at herself in the mirror. Dark rings under her eyes were evidence of her disturbed night, but her lips were red and fuller than ever. _Oh god. Jaime_. _I’ve actually kissed him. And then—_ She cringed at his words, his push of her off him. _You know nothing, Brienne. Rom coms and romance novels are no substitute for actually knowing what is going on._ She pursed her lips at herself as she savagely drew a hairbrush through her hair and retied it. _What the hell am I supposed to do next? How does this all work?_ She was realising all too quickly that she had not a clue. She couldn’t even rely on her instincts, not when they were in such a flux. _Come on, get a grip!_ _He’s in there, waiting for you._ She gave herself one last stern look, stood tall and walked back out.

He turned and smiled. “Ready?”

“Yes.” _No. Not really._

****

In the end, all they’d done that day was simply wander round her local park. His hand had reached for hers, and she took it awkwardly, feeling like a teenager. Except of course, no-one had wanted to hold her hand then. Her heart raced, but she made herself keep gripping his hand and remarkably found herself able to think of other things after a while. Then he’d suddenly let go, jogging over to the ice-cream van. His grin when he returned with two 99s (with flakes, of course) was so boyish and innocent that it made her laugh and rush over so that the cones wouldn’t slip from his clumsy grasp. She could still taste the intense sweetness when he’d kissed her goodnight that evening, his promises of his return murmured in the warm air.

They saw each other most days after that. Jaime was insistent on doing things _properly_ but she had snapped when she finally couldn’t bear him talking about _going on a date_ any longer. She hated that word; it seemed so artificial and cloying. More than that though was the endless desperate pressure of expectation that came with the word from people who didn’t care to understand. His amused look at such an odd demand mercifully turned serious the moment he realised she was not joking. He accepted her apology for her outburst with a shrug of his shoulders, murmuring something about being lucky that he had a thick skin or he would have taken it personally. She’d hugged him hard then, feeling his surprised exhalation and then his own arms bringing her closer still. She was so relieved that he understood it took all her strength not to burst into tears.

Indeed, Jaime’s vow of not rushing her was honoured with kind words and kind kisses and very definite _non-dates_. But each time she watched Jaime leave, to go back to his own bed, she felt a spark of guilt. She knew she was the one holding back from _all that_ ; she was more often than not the one to pull away from his embrace. She felt like she was striking out into darkness when a hand or a mouth strayed too far, a shiver of panic making her stop and rush back to the light, a sorry ( _don’t be sorry_ ) hanging in the air. Her confusion played on her mind constantly. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy it as such – she was increasingly mindful of the addictive pleasure that seeped through her veins as Jaime’s mouth found hers. Nor was it fear – she had known real fear, and it was not what she felt now. Jaime would have said it was just her inexperience. Perhaps. Or maybe it was something more fundamental. Was her reluctance yet another convoluted way of protecting herself? But she needed no protection from Jaime; she knew he was not like other men. So why was she making this so difficult? Was she really such a coward, such an innocent fool? How long would he be patient with her? How many times could she push him away before he had enough? Questions without answers floated round her mind, driving her mad.

****

The same questions were still plaguing her one rainy afternoon a fortnight later, as they watched an old war film together in Brienne’s flat. His legs stretched out next to hers, his odd socks infuriating her for some reason. He must have done that deliberately, she thought, fighting hard not to say anything. _And_ he hogged the remote control, kept protectively just out of her reach. He seemed to fill all the space in her flat, small even without her there, but it felt empty in the mornings. Empty and quiet. So as the film blared away, she cuddled up to his warm and solid body and tried to forget her worries.

“You can teach monkeys to fly better than that!” they said at the same time to the television.

Jaime laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, I should have known. Bet you’ve watched all the war films known to mankind.”

“You said it too,” she retorted. “Anyway. It’s one of my favourites.”

“And mine. Great minds and all that.”

She bumped against him. “Shh, I’m trying to watch—“ she hissed.

“Did you just try to hush me?” he cried, tone deliberately loud enough to distract her. “Unbelievable, wench. No-one hushes me.”

“What? No… I’m just trying to listen!” she said, flapping her hand at him while still keeping her eyes on the screen. Jaime had just grabbed her hand with a faint growl with when his phone beeped. “Huh,” he said, reading the text. “Tyrion’s wondering if we wanted to go for dinner with him tonight. His treat.”

Brienne turned to him wide eyed, film forgotten. “Oh. Right.”

“He’s been desperate to meet you. I want you to meet him. You’ll get on I think.”

“Yes, of course. I-I—“ She felt the nerves churn in her stomach. She realised how much of almost a cocoon she and Jaime had been since that day they’d finally kissed. She couldn’t help shying away from the thought of letting anyone else into their bubble, even someone as close to Jaime as Tyrion.

He sighed. “Don’t even start to think about worrying.”

She bit her lip, annoyed at herself for being so obviously unsettled. “It’s just that I know Tyrion’s important to you and I don’t want to— I don’t want to let you down.”

“Brienne, have a little faith. You haven’t let me down yet and meeting Tyrion— well, you’ll see. He can hold his own quite well enough, even with strapping wenches like yourself. A crick in his neck might be the only slight side-effect of meeting you.”

She narrowed her eyes at his tease but nodded all the same. Of course she would go. She couldn’t even countenance hurting Jaime by refusing, whatever she felt herself about the prospect.

“Look, I need to go back to the flat to change. Come with me and we can meet Tyrion before we head out?”

“Change?” She looked at Jaime, who was wearing jeans and a t-shirt just like she was and scowled.

“Yeah. It’ll probably be a shirt and tie kind of place, knowing Tyrion.”

“I haven’t got anything to wear to that sort of place!” she grumbled darkly, scrambling up from the sofa and dashing off into her bedroom. As she stared at the contents of her meagre wardrobe, she swallowed down a sigh and reached for something that might pass at a moment’s notice. _You owe me big time, Jaime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you guess what film they were watching?!
> 
> Yes - it's Battle of Britain and obviously one of my favourites too! 
> 
> Watch that line being said here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVKPS5aPvOc


	14. Bastille Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep saying this, but I always mean it - THANK YOU for your lovely feedback and encouragement, it means the world.

Brienne pulled at her dress, feeling the soft cotton wrinkle under her fingers for the hundredth time since she first put it on. It wasn’t flattering, bought for a forgotten occasion that had required a conservative cut but she didn’t have a choice; it was the only one she had. Taking a deep breath as they walked up to the door, she caught Jaime’s eye.

He raised an eyebrow at her guarded look, and took her hand in his. “Stop fidgeting. You look great.”

“There’s no need to lie for the sake of my feelings.”

Jaime gripped harder. “I’m not. The navy colour suits you… and your hair—“ he cocked his head, smiling as he took her appearance in, specially the long toned calves that had always been hidden in combats or trousers.

His deliberate stare did nothing to stop her paranoia. “What’s wrong with my hair?” she hissed, touching her head tentatively. It was brushed and pulled into a plait and usually she didn’t mind it not behaving, but tonight she did.

“Nothing—“ said Jaime with a roll of his eyes, pushing open the door. “Come on, let me introduce you.”

A beaming Tyrion welcomed them into the sitting room. Brienne took in her surroundings, her heart beating faster than ever, awed by the size and the decoration. The whole place must have been three times the size of her own flat, stuffed full of antiques and books and luxury.

“Tyrion – this is Brienne, my— err… friend,” croaked Jaime. She bit her lip at his description, a flush creeping up his neck as well as hers. “Brienne, my brother, Tyrion.”

“Ahh, hello! So glad to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” Tyrion extended his hand, winking at Jaime.

Brienne leant forward to take it, surprised by the strength he had, despite his diminutive stature. He had the same twinkle in his eyes as Jaime, the same dimples when he smiled. “Hello,” she replied politely, “Nice to meet you too.”

“Drink?” offered Tyrion.

Brienne looked towards Jaime for direction, but he only shook his head.

“I’m going to have a shower and change.”

_So soon? Don’t leave me alone, Jaime! I don’t know what to say or do!_

“Be nice, Tyrion,” he warned with a grin as he headed off, missing the desperate gaze Brienne gave him. If she could have, she would have grabbed his arm and pulled him right back.

“What would you like, Brienne?”

“Sorry?”

“For a drink?” asked Tyrion, waving a glass at her.

“Oh. Just some orange juice if that’s alright.”

Tyrion nodded. “Of course. Sit, please. You’re not on the parade ground here.”

She perched on the edge of a sofa and held the glass so tightly she could see the whites of her knuckles. She pulled her dress over her knees.

“How are you settling in after coming back from Afghanistan?” asked Tyrion, after he returned to his seat. He could look her in the eye now with a disconcerting mix of intelligence and intrigue that did nothing to put her at ease. It was strange; there were too many hints of Jaime in Tyrion for him to be completely unknown, and yet she did not know him, could not judge his mood like she could Jaime’s.

“Oh. Fine. Yes. Just fine.”

Tyrion swallowed a smile and contemplated her. She was all he expected, and yet, not. Plainer than he imagined; her wary awkwardness was all too apparent and she might have blended into the background had her stature not forced otherwise. From what he had gleaned from Jaime, she had a complete sense of innocence and incorruptibility. The opposite of Cersei, then. And Jaime could hardly be called those things either, considering his past, his past with his twin. So he might have wondered why Jaime had ended up with this odd creature had he not seen the remarkable changes in him, experienced his efforts to move on from the bitter and jaded man he had been. Perhaps it wasn’t so unexpected after all that Jaime had ended up with the sweet, shy girl with in front of him.

“So you saved my brother,” he said abruptly after a long silence.

Brienne looked at him sharply, shaking her head. “No. No, I didn’t. The doctors did so much more.” She shrugged, rubbing a finger round the edge of the glass as she remembered Jaime looking so pale, so defeated in his hospital bed. “He saved himself,” she answered firmly.

“Come now, you’re being too modest I think.”

She bent her head, but her reddened cheeks gave her away. “It’s complicated,” she conceded.

“Important things usually are. Especially with the Lannisters, I’m afraid to say. But I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.”

“Jaime hasn’t hidden that from me—“

“Good.” He swallowed another gulp and leant forward. “But you know, he was never interested in the power play; he had his own call to arms and he filled that role— well, I’m sure you know how good he is— _was_.” He smiled ruefully. “Though I’m sure my father would hate to admit it, I’m the one who enjoys the twists and turns that politics provides.”

“I’ve read your articles,” she said, relieved she could move away from talking about her and Jaime. “They’re very funny.”

Tyrion grinned. “Well I won’t say that I don’t find praise flattering, but thank you—“

“Brienne?” interrupted a voice behind her.

She turned to see Jaime in a dark fitted suit and brushed damp hair, looking half a god.

He offered a tie with a frustrated scowl. “I can’t— I haven’t worn one since—“

“Of course,” she said quickly. Standing, she took the tie and slid it round his upturned collar. She was close enough to smell his soap, feel him breathing slowly under his crisp white shirt. She dared not catch his eye though she felt the burn of his stare on her, the familiar touch of his hand on her waist. Focusing on her fingers, she tied the knot carefully, smoothing down the collar when she finished. Her hands rested on his chest for a long second and when she finally returned his gaze, there was such heated intimacy in his eyes that her cheeks flushed immediately, a warmth swooping through her.

Tyrion coughed loudly. “Shall we go?”

****

“They say the steaks here are the best in town,” said Tyrion happily, as he motioned a waiter over.

“Come in bite sized chunks, do they?” asked Jaime with a heavy sigh, a glance to his right arm.

“I am sorry, but I could get them to cut it up for you if you like?” offered Tyrion with an innocent smile. He didn’t look all that sorry to Brienne, but then she was finding it hard to understand, let alone interpret, the small signals and glances between the two brothers. She had been an only child for so long that she’d forgotten the special sign language siblings developed. The Lannisters had a language all of their own; full of sarcastic put downs, inside jokes and laden looks.

“Don’t you bloody dare. I’ll have the risotto then. A one hand kind of meal if ever there was one.”

The waiter looked at Brienne expectantly, but she had barely glanced at the menu and could only remember one thing. “Oh… err… the lamb please.”

“God, wench. You too?” whined Jaime next to her.

“Don’t let him change your mind, Brienne,” Tyrion cut in before she could speak, as he filled up her wine glass. “He’s obnoxious when he can’t get his way. I put up with it but only because he’s a blood relation. How do you manage?”

“I-I-I don’t. He’s not. I mean I don’t think he is—” She reached for her red wine, trying to calm her nerves, her rambling words.

“You get used to it if you hang around us for any length of time which, of course, we both hope you will.”

Jaime groaned, mouthing an apology to her. “Perhaps you could take some lessons in tact?”

“Pot. Kettle. I’ve heard you say a few choice things—” He stopped at Jaime’s deadly look. Tyrion’s face twitched as he turned back to Brienne. “So, plans. Are you going to stay in the army?”

“I don’t know—“ She looked at Jaime who was watching her with interest. “I haven’t decided… we haven’t discussed it yet…” _We?_ She didn’t know when she had starting wanting Jaime’s opinion on her decisions but it felt right that he should be included.“I don’t think I want to go on another tour.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” murmured Jaime. “Dangerous things.”

Without thinking, she put her hand on his stump, lying carefully on the table between them. He looked at her, lost for a moment but he didn’t pull away. The bandages were rough against her fingers. They were still waiting on the decision about Jaime’s future in the army.

“Indeed.” Tyrion looked at her hand on Jaime’s arm and set his jaw. “Yet here you are, the both of you. Was it always what you wanted to do, Brienne? The army?”

She nodded. “Yes, I suppose. I joined the cadets at school, loved it. Carried on from there.”

“Enough of the interrogation, brother—“

“Asking questions, that’s all. No need to be quite so protective—“ he raised his eyebrows suggestively at Jaime. “Brienne Tarth of TarthCastle, is it?”

“Well, the castle’s called Evenfall Hall. It’s the island that’s called Tarth. Tiny thing.”

Tyrion nodded. “Go on.”

“Oh. It’s just my father and me now. I haven’t lived there, not properly, for years. Boarding school. University. Sandhurst, you know—“

“Hmm. Quite an independent soul then, I imagine.”

_God, he was doing it again – reading her personality like it was some book in front of him. Did all Lannisters have this ‘talent’?_ “Yes,” she stated simply. “I like my own company.”

Tyrion smiled at the faintly stubborn tone that crept into her voice. “Huh. There’s nothing wrong with that. Jaime will just have to work a little harder for your affections, won’t he?”

Brienne looked horrified and embarrassed all at once, staring at Jaime for a second before she dropped her gaze to her lap.

“Tyrion, enough—“ Jaime barked. Tyrion pulled a face at Jaime’s order, jumping down from his chair and heading off to the loos.

“You told him?” she whispered, feeling like all the breath had been crushed from her.

“What?” asked Jaime, brow furrowing in complete confusion.

“About you working _harder for my affections…_ You told him about us not— You said you didn’t mind, you _said_ we would—“ Her voice dropped even lower but the accusatory tone stayed the same, “—not rush. I just—“  

Jaime leaned in close, understanding now. “No. _no_. I haven’t said a thing. I promise you, I _wouldn’t._ Not even to him—“ He shrugged his shoulder in the direction of Tyrion’s empty chair and she caught the hurt blooming in his eyes as anger touched his lips. “Is my word so difficult to trust? Do you think I would brag and bluster about us, about our private lives? I’m good at keeping secrets, remember?”

She felt hollow, like Jaime had ripped her apart, seen her false and turned away. She reached out, wanting to feel his warmth again, for his skin under her touch to melt the hard coolness of his voice.  “Jaime, I—“ she looked at her fingers, then back up to him. “I do trust you.”

He looked at her steadily, but she sensed his muscles relaxing just a little. “It hit a raw nerve—” she continued quietly, knowing he would want to understand.

A question was forming on his lips, but she spotted Tyrion returning and shook her head. “Later,” she murmured, biting back tears and forever thankful that the waiter chose to arrive at that moment. The next few minutes were filled with polite niceties about the food, refilling of glasses and clattering of cutlery before Jaime asked Tyrion about some article he was writing and gallantly kept the conversation flowing for the rest of the evening.

****

Jaime pulled at his tie as he followed Brienne into her flat. She would always refuse his offer of seeing her home, and he would always insist. Sometimes he would let her win, but tonight he needed to make sure she was alright. She had been too quiet, even for her, during the rest of the meal and the taxi home. Distant too, a head turned to gaze unseeing outside the rain-smeared window. She was back to being startled the moment he touched her. Of course he knew the cause. He could hardly forgotten their row either; only practice allowing him to put on a front for Tyrion. It wasn’t even a proper argument, but Brienne’s silent despair pained him more than Cersei’s stinging slaps and hissed insults ever had.

He reached for her in the gloomy hall, circling her with his arms. She hesitated for a moment about surrendering but she didn’t have the strength not to.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into his neck, feeling the tightness in her muscles that had built up throughout the evening. “I’m appalling company.”

“You’re not,” he replied, pulling back so he could look at her. “Tyrion likes you, you know.”

She shook her head in doubt. “How can he? I could barely string two words together… I just felt like I had cotton wool in my mouth.”

“Nerves does not maketh the man… or woman.”

“No? Could have fooled me,” she sighed, abstractedly passing her fingers over his silk tie. She looked at him, her shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry about accusing you—“

A small sad smile pulled at his lips. “I’m sorry too. For what I said in the heat of the moment. I didn’t mean it, I was just surprised, I still don’t understand—“

Her fist clenched against his chest as she remembered the sudden stab of bitter, excruciating betrayal. “It’s about something that happened to me a long time ago— I’ll try to explain.”

Drawing him into the sitting room, a single lamp barely winning against the dark, she sat and told him why she had reacted like she had.

She told Jaime about three fellow cadets called Hunt and Bushy and Ambrose who were in the same year as her at Sandhurst, about how they charmed her with gifts and attention, how they made her feel like she was wanted as a girl for the first time— how she had missed the rumours and insinuations, too naïve to realise the boys’ motives as solely that of winning a bet to bed her first— how it was only the old colonel Tarly who finally stopped it, a sharp look and a sharper word about how this never happened in his day when women knew their place.

“…I find it hard not to hear the mocking taunts even now. Jaime, I wasn’t reacting to you or even Tyrion— it’s just that it’s not easy to forget when your trust has been breached so utterly.” She took a breath; she seemed to have been speaking for hours, her throat sore, her mind scoured bloody.  

“Oh Christ, Brienne—  what absolute bastards!” He stood up, pacing as his rage boiled inside him. “And I was bloody awful to you when I first met you—“

“No.” She stood too, blocking his path. “No, even at your worst, you were never malicious like them. Anyway, you changed. They’re probably still the same. I haven’t seen them since they were made to repeat a term as punishment.” She frowned at the thought of them, shaking her head as if to chase away the ghosts. “Now you know why it’s hard for me to…” she trailed off, leaving the matter unspoken though it lay heavily on both their minds.

“Now I know,” he repeated softly. In the shadows he looked at her and she looked back, the pain that had crept into her voice moments ago still obvious in her gaze. He recognised it all too well; the scars of rejection, a bruised innocence undermined in the cruellest of ways. Like no one he had met before she showed it took a great deal more strength to be gentle than to be brutal, to keep a heart kind when the world was not. And for her to go further with him— this was more fundamental than mere inexperience, more than shyness. It was asking her to give up her last remaining defence.

“Brienne, you of all people deserve a different truth, one so much better than the one you know now. Something real and honest and right.”

She kept watching him, her expression intense.

He continued, his muddled words threatening to undo all his careful efforts. “I hope you understand how much I want to …with you… God, I want to show you how good it can be, show you how much I adore you… But it is your choice. Tell me to go home tonight, and I’ll do it happily because that’s what you want.”

The shadows slid and flickered as her hand reached out for his and he took it, feeling her long fingers intertwine with his. She pulled him close, sure as she could be that this was what she wanted, _that it was_ _her decision_.

“Stay.”


	15. Bastille Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this one was a struggle. just the mere act of putting one word after the next suddenly seemed impossible for a while so my deepest apologies for the delay.
> 
> i'll also use this opportunity to say how much each and every bit of feedback means to me. even if i don't respond to each comment (and i will start doing this more) i am so grateful to you for taking the time to write a few words. they motivate me, make me laugh and definitely make me smile and squee!
> 
> i have nothing more to say apart from that if you're still reading this fic, i both commend you and thank you.

He was screaming. It might have been a twitch of his limbs or some old instinct that woke her a second before it began. Living room. Middle of the night. And then, as she realised they must have fallen asleep there, curled up together like they were afraid of letting go, it started. Through her fogged mind, through the darkness that had suddenly become dangerous, she felt him take a breath and then another all too quickly. The raw sound of fear filled the dark room, overwhelming it in a flood that wanted to drown them both. It was an ancient terror, a man in fear for his life.

She reached for his face, a palm seeking his cheek. “Jaime! Wake up!”

He jerked from her touch, an arm thudding against her chest with a force that made her gasp and wince. Sucking in a breath, she moved in front of him, holding his arms forcefully down as he twisted frantically from whatever monster only he could see. “Jaime! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” She found herself shouting at him, desperate. “Jaime! Please just wake up—“

And then as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Ragged breaths from both fought their way through the echo of the screams, every sinew strained, every muscle ready to lash out again. Bent over him, Brienne watched the whimpers of his nightmare flicker over his face, bathed in sweat, until they faded into nothing. It was all she could do to remain standing, to loosen her grip on him, to remember what quietness was before it was pierced by dread.

Jaime groaned as he came to, heavy frightened eyes landing on her drawn face.

“Brienne—“

“I’ll get you some water.”

He closed his eyes again when she moved away. The night rushed back in, but the images that had passed through his mind, the feelings that had split his body apart had paled like they always did, memories made ghosts who coolly slipped from his grasp, mocking laughter in their wake.

“Here.”

He moved stiffly, reaching for the glass with a trembling hand, his body worn down to the bone. She pulled up a chair, facing him but just out of his reach. A light had been turned on somewhere, so he could see her watching him, arms hugging herself.

“Are you alright?” she asked. She sounded winded, like it was an effort to speak.

He dropped his gaze, avoiding the question. “Are you?”

A hand went to a spot under her collar bone, a sudden stillness in her face before she nodded. Biting her lip, she hesitated for a second before she said, “You were screaming so loudly, I didn’t know…“

He tried a smile, incongruous with the fear that still hid in the corners of the room. “I bet the neighbours are calling the police right this second—”

A frown appeared on her face. He had known that his chances of trying to laugh it off were about as close to nil as it could get, but still— He shrugged, reaching forward for her hand, trying to stall her inevitable questions.

She took it carefully, her thumb running over his knuckles.

“Do you often have nightmares?” she asked quietly.

He tensed instinctively. “Brienne— look, it’s the middle of the night.”

She cocked her head and asked another. “Is it because of what happened with your arm?”

“I’m not doing this.”

“Jaime—“

“No.”

Her gaze darted away, her fingers following her retreat. A silence descended between them, both too stubborn to move on.

It was a full minute before Brienne looked at him again. He took his chance. “It’s nothing to do with you; it’s just something I don’t want to talk about.” He sounded petulant, full of excuses he didn’t believe.

Her jaw ground and tightened, her voice touched with a plea for sanity. “How can you say that?”

He stared at her, realising too late the fury building in him. His claws flashed and drew blood when he leant forward.  “For fuck’s sake, Brienne, I don’t want to talk about it. What can you not understand? It’s not bloody difficult. I know we seem to tell each other every fucking thing and I know you think you’re helping but I have things I don’t want to share with you, with anyone. Alright?”

His volume startled them both, leaving Brienne flabbergasted for a moment. Then her eyes flared brightly as if reflecting the anger burning in him. She contemplated walking out of the room there and then, and she might have done in a previous life but not now. She swallowed hard, trying to be calm despite it all. “I don’t think it’s unfair of me to ask for an explanation when I wake to you screaming in complete fear.”

Dark eyes watched her. She stared at him, daring him to say otherwise, but all he did was shrug and look away, a lion slinking away in shame at being confronted by a creature that had no right to show up his weaknesses.

Something snapped in her at his reaction, a warning of tears already blaring away. “It’s not fair that you say nothing after… after… you hit me.”

He turned, gaze flicking up and down her, searching. “I hit you?” he asked softly through thinned lips. He suddenly looked a lot older, burdened with endless troubles.

She backed down, shoulders bent again. “You were still dreaming.”

“Where?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He tutted in annoyance. “Yes, it does. Show me.”

Looking away from him to some abstract point on the wall, she pulled the neck of her dress down, revealing a welt blooming starkly red against her pale skin. “Your watch must have caught me—“ she murmured after hearing him hiss at the sight.

She felt his fingers run over the mark gently but it still stung and she jerked away.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I never—“

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is,” he snapped back, a look of despair widening the breach that gasped between them. “So stop excusing my actions, _please._ Stop forgiving me for things that I did wrong. I can’t stand it.  I _know_ I should have told you before… I _know_ I shouldn’t have let you near me when I’m clearly a danger—” A Lannister brand of furious irony bleached his words, agitating his face. “But Christ, I do have some pride left. I mean, I’m fucked up enough as it is, without shouting it all and sundry the fact that I turn into a gibbering wreck most nights.”

Brienne didn’t know what to say that had not been said before, that Jaime had not heard from her before. So she found herself simply waiting, watching, on the edge of something suffocating.

His spitting anger deepened. “And to make it worse— I sound like such naïve fool— I thought it might be different if I was with someone during the night… that somehow it would stop the nightmares. I’m only sorry it didn’t.” He looked at the spot where he had caught her, face hardening.

Feeling scorched, she tried, failed, to collect her thoughts. “And I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t tell me—“ The hurt in her voice appeared without her bidding.

Jaime groaned. “I couldn’t tell anyone.”

Her face creased in pain. “No. You didn’t _want_ to tell _me._ There’s a difference. I know there is.”

“Brienne, that’s not true— since I got back, since these nightmares started, I have tried to ignore them, forget that they even exist. I refuse to acknowledge them myself in the hope that they will just stop…do you understand?”

She blinked, tasted blood where lips had taken too much worry.

“I want to—“ He stopped, a frown cracking deep across his brow as he struggled with himself. “The nightmares are something that I can’t control. Like what happened to me, in that field, on repeat. Sometimes, I even dream I’m back at Casterly, right arm in tact. Everything seems so normal, perfect, like nothing has changed. And then, someone touches my hand and I’m back to screaming again until I wake. It’s like my mind wants to torture me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t bear it. _That’s_ why I haven’t said anything, to _anyone_.”

She tried to ignore the prickle that swept over her at the mention of what he dreamt of, but it buried its sharp barbs deep and clung on, a reminder, if she ever could forget, that he was a man with a past.

Jaime twitched at the silence presented to him. “I don’t expect you to understand—”

She huffed at his assumption, stopping him in his tracks. He was waiting for her, she realised, provocations made to fill the quietness. He needed her to say something, to reassure him that he was not alone. She felt her muscles loosen at the thought; the force with which she had gripped the chair fade as she took a breath and then a second. Her voice croaked as she started, but grew stronger with every word. “Jaime, I don’t know how to make all this better, but I— we will. Promise.”

He barked a tired laugh. “Make it better? You’re not my nurse for god’s sake. You’ve done enough for me.”

“Isn’t that for me to decide as much as you?”

Her determined gaze bored into him and he gave her a wry, edgy smile. “Perhaps.”

“This is important, Jaime. I can’t just watch you; hear you suffer without doing _something_. You must know that I can’t by now.”

“I’m realising that.”

“You should have realised that a long time ago.”

“Touché.”

They stared at each other, a wary sort of truce appearing, fragile until a flicker of a smile passed from him to her. A small peace tribute, but offered and accepted in relief by both, desperate to overcome this.

Jaime stood with effort. “I should call a cab. Go back to Tyrion’s.”

“Don’t be silly.” She took a deep breath, trying to sound practical and pragmatic rather than nervous. It wasn’t working. “It’s too late— or rather too early…erm… you need proper rest. I think…my-my bed is most comfortable.”

She was blushing even before Jaime looked back down to her, an eyebrow raised in surprise. “Brienne, I don’t expect you to do that—“

Taking his hand, she stood herself. “Do you think you’ll… have another nightmare?” she asked hesitantly.

He shook his head. “I’ve never had two in one night. But if you don’t want to risk it, just say.”

A squeeze of his hand told him the answer, her big eyes shadowed with tiredness but not leaving his.

****

She woke, heavy with sleep. Taking a breath, she shifted against the body next to her, aware again of his presence but now with a calmness that softened her mind, the faint whirring of thoughts made slow. An arm draped over her waist, fine hairs a haze in the gloom of a summer’s late morning forcing its way through heavy curtains. It was a peaceful moment, ordinary in its scene and for once she didn’t feel any different from the millions of souls out there who had woken up just like she had. She gently ran her fingers down his arm, bringing the unconscious weight of it up, closer. She could smell his skin, his scent that had somehow become embedded in her mind, in everything he touched. How could it have strained with such force, such vehemence, she wondered, and lie so quietly now. An aberration of harsh voices, a moment lost to panic. Last night had not been forgotten, but it seemed silted up, details rubbed away over hours of sleep afterwards, deep and dark and silent for both.

She sat slowly, lifting his arm and swinging her bare legs round to the edge of the bed. She held her breath for a moment, watched the blonde boy remain wholly attached to deep slumber, eyelashes still, face slack and slipped out of the room. The day was half gone, the flat stuffy. Opening a window, she leaned out for a moment. An ambulance passed below, its wail suffocating in the thick, hot air. Her fingers thrummed an anxious beat in response. _Off to save a life. A promise to a crying voice, barely decipherable over the phone. It’s coming, it’s nearly there, keep calm…_

It made her childish goal of making it all better for Jaime seem ridiculous. This was no bad dream to be soothed away with a kiss, a soft smile of reassurance. It was trauma, the chaos of war brought home. She would listen, if he wanted to talk, but somehow she knew that would not be enough. He needed a professional. That was all very well bar for the fact that she just couldn’t see Jaime sitting in front of an overworked, well meaning NHS therapist, scuffed carpet under his feet, the pot plant in the corner covered in dust, _talking about his feelings._ It didn’t even work when the scene changed to some serious, smooth doctor on Harley Street where the sofas were soft and deep, and the receptionist clinked her nails against the cup of coffee she would hand over, an eye for the good looking but vulnerable.

The kettle boiled loudly. She didn’t even remember putting it on. She was starving, she realised, as she was drawn from her thoughts. Food picked at last night, then— she sighed at the thought of how much had happened since. Bacon needed to be fried and stuck in some bread and the world would be set to rights. But then there was a body in the doorway, yawning and stretching, oblivious to the fact that he was only wearing boxers.

“You read my mind.”

Brienne slapped the straying hand that reached round her to the hot frying pan, utterly focused on not being focused on how he pressed against her for just a teasing moment before he leaned back against a counter, arms and ankles crossed, as if he’d been there all his life.

A slip of a smile appeared suddenly as he studied her. “Long legs and breakfast? Perfection.”

She pulled with little effect at the scrappy XXL t-shirt that still barely reached halfway down her thighs. She normally wore pyjama bottoms, but with the weather and another person sleeping so close— she could feel her neck and scalp turning red, soles of her feet itching against the lino as his gaze centred on her. “Stop it…” she muttered, trying to avoid looking at him, lithe and full of light that caught the angles of his torso, the gold on his unshaven jaw. “I need to get dressed… _you_ need to get dressed.”

“Are you always this bossy in the morning?”

“I’m not bossy,” she muttered back.

“Add contrary to the list—“

She tried to step around him to get two plates, but bare limbs stopped her, a hand running over her arm up to her cheek, the other arm round her waist. She looked at him, the green in his eyes as hot as she felt as they stood there, attached through each touch of skin on skin. He brushed a handful of hair away, a kiss placed in the corner of her mouth. She held herself close with a surrendering sigh, finding her place with him, against him so easily that she made herself giddy.

“Is a simple good morning too much to ask for?” she whispered against his cheek.

Jaime’s face evolved from a crumpled-grumbly-just-woken-up expression to one of intense seriousness, only tempered by something in the set of his eyebrows. “Good morning Miss Tarth!” he cried out in a sing-song tone, like a crowd of children welcoming a teacher.

She thumped his chest in response, but she could barely hear the _oww_ in between the gales of laughter. He wandered through to the sitting room, and sat heavily at the table, giving her a mischievous grin when she brought over the food. She sat opposite him, soothing her rumbling stomach as she ate.

“This is quite possibly the best meal of my life, wench,” spluttered Jaime through a chew and a bite.

She shook her head at sight: still a teenage boy hoovering up any food within reach, always the best meal until the next. She wished she could join in his enjoyment, but just a glance at the sofa behind Jaime brought it all back.

“Jaime—“ Brienne started to speak, “Last night—“

“—was bloody awful. Yeah.” He stretched fingers to her, floating above the damage caused. “Does it still hurt?”

She shook her head. “No… I meant to say it was a long night, but you’re right, it was… tough.”

His hand landed on hers. She reached for his stump, bringing it to its partner, holding it carefully, like she always did. Her gaze remained firmly cast down, as if the weight of the air around her stopped her from sitting straight, from taking a breath.

Jaime cocked his head at her solemn manner, trying to catch her eye. “You know I’m sorry, for shouting, for—“ he said, with a defeated laugh. “—for everything.”

She squeezed her hands around his, saw how his fingers intertwined with hers and felt her heart waver. “I know. It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“We need to talk about what happens next.”

“That sounds ominous… I feel like I’m eating my last meal here before you march me off to the gallows. Or kick me out. I don’t know which would be worse.”

She pursed her lips at his exaggeration, but realising it was defence mechanism, she bit down a retort. Her next thought was how to soften Jaime up for what she wanted to say next but she shoved that aside as well. She never had the requisite skills in the arts of manipulation, of persuasion. She would just have to say it and weather the outcome, whatever it would be. 

“I think you should…you need to see a professional about your nightmares. I know the army has—“

His face darkened, like she knew it would. Pride and acceptance of flaws are fearful enemies, and they battled in his eyes, in his muscles under her palms.

“You want me to see a shrink?” he said, with an edge to his voice that cut through to her quick.

“They will help you get better.”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

“But we can only try, can’t we?”

He looked at her with an indecipherable emotion in his steady gaze. Then he looked away, and she thought he was lost. He would refuse. He would storm out, furious at the mere suggestion. It would be one step too far on an already hard journey.

But— and she remembered it for a long time after, kept close in her memories— he seemed to settle, a moment in which he seemed to relax into his own skin and he nodded slowly.

“Really?” she breathed, her fingers tight on his.

“Christ alive, I can’t believe I’m even contemplating doing this, but yes. Yes. I can’t undermine your whole ‘my word is my bond’ thing, can I?”

She beamed. Quickly rising and walking round to his chair, she leant down and gave him a long, relieved kiss.


	16. 15 July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally got my act together, figured out what I wanted from the plot and wrote this. I'm really sorry to keep you all waiting, you're all far too patient with me! 
> 
> Once again, re-reading your comments gave me the motivation in the dark, confusing times. Feedback is greatly appreciated and hugely loved. 
> 
> Kate x

Her sure hands on his shoulders, the taste of salt on her lips and the odd angle of the kiss did much to turn Jaime’s mind from the dubious promise he’d just made. Another oath sworn, he thought ironically, made only palatable because it was for her. He wondered when the tall girl currently kissing him would realise quite how much power she had over him. Oddly, he hoped she never would. He was quickly realising there was much to be said about never being on guard for a weakness to show, never having to be careful lest an advantage be given to another. It created a lightness in him, a simplicity that had been rare if not non-existent in his life so far. He pulled back, trying to focus on that feeling, trying to capture it before it settled back down, like sand in churned waves.  Was this what they meant when people said they knew that things were going to be okay, that the rollercoaster would finally stop? Whatever it was, it felt right. It felt good.

“Jaime? Are you alright?” asked Brienne, noticing his distraction.

He smiled up at her, noticing with amusement at how the sun caught her hair, making it burn bright for second, almost like a halo. His source of good, indeed. “Thinking.”

“I don’t know how quickly we can get something organised, we need to call the—“

“Not about that,” he said, furrowing his brow.

“No? Why not? We need to—“

He lifted a hand to hush her. “I know, I know. But that wasn’t what I was thinking about right now.” He spoke languidly, as if the heat of the room had softened his words, but this message was clear behind his stare.

She crossed her arms, completely missing his meaning. “Alright. Go on. What _were_ you thinking about?”

He half-swallowed a laugh at her innocent question. “You, mainly.”

“Me?”

“Hmm, yes. And the weather.”

“The weather?”

He rolled his eyes at her obtuseness. “Have you turned into a parrot? Yes. You. The weather.”

She frowned in confusion. “But why?”

“Because it means I get to do this—“

He swung round on his chair, hand and stump going to her thighs to pull her between his legs, feeling the taut muscles flicker under his palm as he smoothed it up and down her leg. She made to step back, but he gripped her between his knees, strong enough to resist her half-hearted attempts to escape. Looking down at him with wide eyes, he saw the blue uncertainty fighting merrily against the sudden rush of red blood that he felt radiate from her.

It spurred him to grin wickedly at her, eyes sparking as if his gaze had landed on some vulnerable prey. _Oh, how he did enjoy a battle, a testing of his skills to win over those less convinced._ There was much pleasure to be had from the chase, a thrill that he hadn’t felt since the early days with Cersei. That had turned into something always rushed, always crushingly secretive all too quickly. This— well, he intended to savour this.

“What are you doing?” she gasped at him, reaching for his shoulders again.

“I want to know what these legs feel like,” he purred. “You’ve been teasing me with them all morning.”

“I’ve done no such thing,” she retorted, pursing her lips.

He sighed dramatically, his fingers having found a scar on her thigh. The intricacy of the change of texture tantalised his nerves further, drawing him in. “Pedant. Alright, maybe not _deliberately_ … but still, you’re making it impossible to resist.”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “There’s nothing to resist,” she said quietly.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Tarth.”

He raised his eyes at the breath of a sigh she gave; caught up in how for once she didn’t break her gaze with him as his hand moved round from the back of her thigh to the front, a little higher than before. Her skin was babyishly smooth, but holding back the hard lean muscles he’d only glimpsed until then. Touching her like that while watching her, seeing the way her teeth caught her lips one moment and then let go, how her pupils nearly overtook all the blue sent his heart racing.

A little higher still and his fingers touched the edge of her t-shirt, the cotton feeling oddly rough against the unblemished pale skin. Her grasp on him tightened, her short nails digging in and making him arch slightly towards her. He was close enough to see a shiver of goose bumps appear under his splayed fingers, despite the warmth of the room. He leaned forward, placing a kiss on the milky white flesh, aware of the fear that trembled there.

He looked up again. “Don’t be scared, wench,” he said, his voice low.

“I-I-I’m not.”

He raised an unbelieving eyebrow at the white lie, but let it go. “Good.”

“I just—“ Her hand went to cover his, still waiting patiently on her thigh. “I just think—“

“Best if you don’t. Just let me do all the hard work.”

“I feel silly.”

He increased the pressure of his touch on her skin. “That all you’re feeling right now?”

She stared down at him, lip bitten as furiously as the thoughts that flitted over her gaze. Then to his surprise, to his joy, she lifted her hand from her thigh to his cheek, bending down to give him a shy kiss.

Left with the impression of her hot lips on his, which was doing all sorts to his imagination, he kissed the jut of her hip, pulling the t-shirt up and away to reveal more new skin to press his lips to. His hand slid up to the swell of her hip before moving round and back, brushing over her knickers, her firm arse – he could feel the bunching of nervy muscles as he did so – up the side of her waist, her ribs moving sharply under lean flesh as she tried to catch her breath.

_To be the first_ , he thought as he found her, found the places that had been hidden until then.  _He’d always been the first for the women he loved. He’d hoped to be the last too. Then. Now._

He kissed the warm skin of her stomach, just above the line of her underwear. He breathed her in hungrily, aware that the hints of mustiness, of something more base than the soap she usually smelt of, was doing nothing to stop his half-hard cock from hardening further.

And then she joined him, her hands moving slowly into his hair, unsure fingers resting lightly on his scalp. He looked up, saw her head cocked to one side, her eyes closed, cheeks bright pink and knew she’d followed him down this path, bravely and loyally, like always. She ran her fingers through his hair again, causing his breath to stutter—

She shifted in his grasp, eyes snapping open. “Am I doing something wrong?”

He swallowed hard. “No, not at all. I like it. A lot.”

She twitched at his dark tone, the lust in it unmistakeable as it filtered through the sultry air, her teeth fidgeting at the edge of her mouth. He stood suddenly, wanting desperately to reclaim her lips for their proper use of kissing his. He was being rougher than he had been before, he knew, but she matched his hard hot kisses with her own, drawing him closer until he burned from the in to the out.

Encouraged, his hand reached back under her shirt and went higher to her breast. He held it softly at first – a perfect fit in his palm he realised – before he ran his thumb over the nipple. It caused her to jerk into him, hip bones crashing with his. She had to take a step to steady herself, but all that meant was that his leg slid in between hers, his throbbing groin pushed into hers, unbearably close through the thin layers of underwear.

Jaime caught her awkwardly, a sharp stab of pain in his injured arm making him hiss: “Fuck, wench— take it easy!“

“Sorry!” she yelped, recoiling like his touch branded her. “I-I didn’t expect— I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.” She was aghast, her hands clenched in fists as she succumbed to waves of embarrassment that made her look remarkably small and ashamed.

He laughed freely, blind to the signs. “Come back, no harm done—“ He went to grab wrist and pull her back into his arms.

She shook her head, avoiding his outstretched hand. The spell that been woven between them broke into a thousand sharp shards, drawing blood with tiny cuts that no one but her saw, that no one would notice until she paled and disappeared. The real world came rushing in instead, stinging her with its expectations, its incessant demands for experience and knowledge, her mind shrieking as it was pulled apart by all her thoughts.

He caught her warning look at last, scrambling to rescue the situation, to rescue her. “Stop. Just stop over-thinking this. I know you liked it. You can’t hide that from me. I could see it in your eyes, amongst other things—” he said fiercely.

She immediately dropped her gaze, trying to put herself beyond his gravity, his force on her. “Don’t.”

“Brienne—“

Her name from his mouth pulled at her, like it always did. But she resisted the tug. “I need a shower. I have so many things to do.”

He let out an unconscious sound of frustration. “Give a guy a break— I thought we— oh god knows!”

She flinched at the noise, hating herself for making him feel that way. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want apologies,” he said with a grimace as he turned away, his hand running through his hair. “I just wonder what goes on in that head of yours to turn something we were _both_ enjoying into this? Just because you stumbled into me? What’s a little awkwardness to you?”

“I’m sorry for being such a huge disappointment,” she spat out without thinking.

“That’s not what I meant, and you damned well know it!” he snapped in return. He deliberately moved in front of her, forcing her to look at him. He felt inexplicably furious at being pushed out of her space, at letting her slip away so easily away. “You are so bloody opaque sometimes despite being the least complicated person I know. And now you won’t even look at me.”

She wrenched herself around him, desperate for air. The room, her once simple sitting room, was now suddenly at the frontline of each of their battles and so full of unspoken tension that she felt like she was suffocating. She could hear Jaime storming round behind her before he banged the bathroom door, the guilt at his anger doing nothing to calm her. My fault as usual, she thought, biting her lip hard to stop the tears. The few minutes she’d been entranced by Jaime’s affections, the few minutes she’d forgotten her worries grew fainter with every breath until they seemed as unreal as a dream.

She turned to get dressed, wondering how long she’d been blindly staring out the window, when Jaime reappeared. He looked as good as any man could in a creased shirt and trousers that belonged to dark evenings and posh restaurants. He was hovering by the door, clearly conscious of not coming closer, as if she was something caught in headlights, likely to run or worse, bite.

He hesitated for a second before speaking. “I’ll go.”

“If you want to.”

His jaw tightened, the green in his eyes turning hard for a second. “If you want me to.”

She let out a strangled laugh, feeling horribly weak for a moment. “Yet another decision I have to make? Thanks.” She reached for a chair, sitting heavily.

“What the hell does that mean?”

His voice sounded faint as she clutched her head in her hands. She couldn’t find the energy to reply.

“Out with it.”

He was closer now, right next to her, dragging a chair across so that he could look at her. She could smell her shampoo lingering in his wet hair, and it caught painfully on the lump in her throat.

“I’ve been trained in interrogation techniques, you know.”

She shrugged at his words and turned her head, too embarrassed at her overreaction to catch his eye. “It’s complicated,” she managed, after a while.

“I’m making it complicated?”

There was grief in his voice, reminding her of the hospital where she had had to make him live. Her heart tightened further as she caught his gaze instantly.

“No. Not you. It just is. Everything has become—“ She stretched out her fingers, palms upwards. “— so heavy to carry.”

His expression softened. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“There was no need to. I had everything under control, that is, until…” she trailed off, feeling her cheeks redden.

Jaime remained still, studying her in silence.

She straightened, his uncharacteristic quietness enough of an oddity to make her snap out of it. “Your nightmares, your arm…I want you to get better. I want you to figure out what you’re going to do with your life. I want to know what I’m going to do with mine. All these things… and then— I just can’t worry about something else.”

A murmur of laughter emerged from Jaime. “Some lesser man would take it as an insult that sleeping with them causes only anxiety. But then you always did have a way with charm, wench.”

Her face crumpled; his gentle mocking hitting her with painful force on already bruised skin. “That’s not what I mean— I don’t want to worry, but I can’t help it. And I don’t have the space in my head to deal with everything together. It sounds ridiculous, I know.”

“No, it doesn’t sound ridiculous, but it sounds just like you. Ahh, Christ, I should have realised.” He leaned forward, hand and stump not quite touching her knees. “What do you actually want to do, you know, if you could do anything?”

She stared at him. “To get you better, of course.”

He cocked his head in despair and rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the guilt trip. I meant doing something for yourself, you foolish girl.”

There had been one thought running through her mind over the last few hours and days and it tumbled from her lips all too easily. “I want to go home. But I can’t leave you and you have to stay for the doctors, the therapy—“

His face twitched but his gaze remained steady, confident. “I can cope by myself.”

She reached for him, her hand landing on his stump. “I don’t want you to just cope. I have to stay. I have to stay for you.”

“Look, if we carry on like this we’ll both end up at the loony farm. I think…” He looked away for a second. “I think you should go home. In fact, I want you to. You deserve a break.”

“But—“ She scrubbed a hand over her face. “What about you? I feel awful at being so selfish. I just need to get a grip—“

“But nothing. Look, I’ll get myself organised from this end. Start taking happy pills, that sort of thing.”

“I can wait—“

He groaned at hearing the obstinacy in her voice. “It might be weeks before there’s a change, or improvement. I told you, you need a break from worrying about me.”

Her teeth found a hangnail, fretfully pulling at it. It didn’t feel right leaving him behind. She didn’t want to, and yet, here she was contemplating it. The mistake had been to say she wanted to go, for it freed the idea to settle with Jaime. Now he made it seem like she would be letting him down if she _didn’t_ go. An ember of anger flared briefly at Jaime. He didn’t understand how torn she felt, how this was a horrible decision to make. Guilt pooled coolly in her veins.

“ _If_ I go, please make sure you talk to Tyrion. He needs to know about the nightmares, if he doesn’t already. He needs to support you through this,” she said.

“You _will_ go. You want to, whatever you say. I think you should. Why the hell wouldn’t you go?”

“It feels wrong.”

His eyes hardened at her endless arguments. “I’ll be _fine_. And anyway, why can’t I talk to you?”

She grimaced. “There’s no internet, a very temperamental landline and I can only get mobile phone reception from one hill, a mile’s walk away.”

Instead of sighing, as she expected him to, he laughed. “This is just a ruse to get me writing letters again, isn’t it?”

She forced a smile, still half-heartedly cross with him. “Something like that. But you needn’t—“

He leaned back, his legs intertwining with hers. “I rather liked it, you know. Even if it was terribly old fashioned.”

She became conscious of how much she would miss the little touches he did without thinking. “Me too,” she said quietly, her voice catching.

His gaze flickered upwards and then down again, noticing her reaction. “You’ve kept them?” he asked, keeping his tone forcibly light. His fingers trailed abstractly over his bandaged arm.

She looked at the movement of his hand, at his face and remembered too. “Of course. Have you?”

His gaze warmed. “Yes.”

The silence hung heavily between them; suffused with memories, feelings that had not faded as ink might in harsh sunlight.

Jaime smiled wryly. “That said, perhaps it would be easier if you were on that hill, say, at four o’clock every day.”

“Every day?” she asked, surprised.

“You’re really not doing my ego any good at all, you know.”

She blushed. “Alright.”

“Good.” He stretched, as if he was about to go. A wave of panic caught Brienne unawares and she reached for him.

“Jaime, I’m really not sure this is a good idea—“

He stopped her with a kiss, a hand on her cheek pulling her close. There was none of the urgency behind it of that morning; it was soft and chaste, wiping the slate clean between them. He brought his forehead to hers. “It won’t be for long. You need it more than you realise.”

She leaned against him, words escaping her as she fought to accept what he said. There was a flash of green, a hand slipped down her arm and into hers. A squeeze, a smile, and he was gone.

She stared at the empty space in front of her, his smell and his voice lingering in the air for several long minutes after the front door banged. At least there had been no goodbyes; no end made real and fragile. She couldn’t have coped with that, she thought. Another thought forced its way in though, trampling to the front of her mind: _what have you done? What have you done?_ Her fists clenched in distress. She stood, almost running to the phone, trembling fingers punching the number. As it rang out and rang out, she felt resignation rather than relief. The sharp edges of her decision rubbed painfully against her nature. It didn’t feel like it was the right thing to do, whatever Jaime said. But her stubbornness, her rationale, her pleas had got her nowhere. Not this time.

The sound in her ear jolted, a pause before a distant, crackly voice. “Evenfall Hall.”

“Daddy, it’s me.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a friend asked incredulously, "Is the great evenings hiatus over?", I can only say yes, and I'm really sorry it took so bloody long. 
> 
> Simple lack of time is the cause here, but I am really sorry to keep all you lovely readers waiting. I am also so glad and hugely happy at the support I've got, the brilliant comments, the gentle-not-so-gentle pokes about getting myself into gear - it has all definitely helped a lot.
> 
> Meanwhile, one of my NY resolutions is to write a chapter a month... I hope I can keep that up, because you guys most of all deserve it!
> 
> Enough of my ramblings - enjoy :)

**Tarth / Brienne**

As Brienne stepped off the boat and onto Tarth, she felt like a stranger. Her sea legs had deserted her on the trip over and it took a few long moments before she stopped feeling sick and could heave her bag on her shoulder to make her way along the harbour and towards the only person waiting there. It was evening; the boat would return with the last of the tourists to the mainland and only a handful of natives would remain in the island’s isolated night time grasp. She could smell the salt baked into the stone and wood, the sun having shone all day and now only dropping down over the hills.

Despite the growing darkness, she could not miss her father. Taller and broader than she, he was as steady as the granite on which the island was founded. Before either spoke, she was pulled into a crushing hug, her age rapidly spiralling backwards until she was a mere child, smelling the old wax of his jacket, feeling the heat of his huge hands pull her closer and keep her safe. She buried her head against his shoulder, clinging on even as his hold weakened.

“Hello, love,” he murmured, a softness to the growl.

“Hello,” she said, pulling back, her fingers still trailing over his arm. She studied his face. More lines had appeared in the years she’d been gone, a set to his face that told her of his struggles to keep the island alive and well.

“When I got your message— is everything alright?” asked Selwyn, after a moment of contemplating her in return.

She felt a spark of guilt at making him worry. “I’m fine. I… I just needed to see you. See Tarth. It’s been too long.”

He nodded slowly, not quite believing her assurances. “I bought the car. Dinner’s on the table.”

Brienne dipped her head, glad for her father’s tendency for straightforwardness over emotional wrangling. She saw his confusion, but he was also pleased that she had returned. It was something in the way his blue eyes twinkled gently in the lights of the harbour. He’d never been altogether happy she had left, but he had let her go and now he welcomed her back and she was glad of that.

As the jeep rattled over the village’s cobblestones, she turned her head left and right, glimpsing the lights that marked the fishermen’s houses against the darkness of the shop and cafes that depended on outsiders.

Selwyn glanced at her. “Nothing’s changed here, Bri.”

She frowned at his on the spot remark. “It feels… different,” she said.

“You’ve just forgotten how it is, that’s all. It’ll come back soon enough.”

Brienne nodded vaguely, wondering how her father could be so sure about these things.

The sound of the wheels changed as they turned onto the mile long gravel path that led up to Evenfall Hall, nestled firmly in the valley that ran the length of the island, situated so that one wall took advantage of a dipped hill and looked out over the sea.

Brienne tried to relax. She was nearly home, she knew the castle like her own skin, she would not feel uncomfortable there. She felt the familiar flutter of recognition as the house finally rose into view: perfectly square with its small medieval windows set over three floors, the grey stone that looked cold but would feel warm after a day in the sun, and the ivy that crawled up one wing that would soon be turning bright red as autumn approached. Yes, she realised, this was her home.

“Go on in, love. I’ll get your bag.”

As usual, they entered through the back door, straight into the kitchen. Warm and fuggy, it took a moment for Brienne to realise there was another person there; strong arms moving pots around on their ancient Aga.

“Ahh, Bri— this is… Mrs Hill, the housekeeper,” explained her father behind her.

Judging from the rare embarrassment in his voice, Brienne knew that Mrs Hill was the most recent woman in her father’s life. Ever since she’d been little, the housekeepers had always been something more than cook, cleaner, nanny. Brienne wasn’t surprised that there was a new one; her father never seemed to keep them beyond a year at the most. But they were always of one type – strong, matronly women with variations on strictness of character and plumpness of cheeks. Nothing like her own mother, judging from the picture that her father kept on his desk. She’d been tall and willowy, her head resting on her father’s shoulder, their hands clasped together. Brienne could only remember the picture if she tried to bring up her mother’s face. The rest – the vague smiles and touches, the smell of her perfume – only appeared in her dreams.

“Ahh, welcome back pet!” said Mrs Hill, her words full of warmth. She had a local accent, and Brienne felt a jolt at realising that she was, _had been_ , the wife of one of Tarth’s tenant farmers. “Now you sit down and eat your dinner before it gets cold.” She patted Brienne’s arm, directing her to sit at the massive, cluttered farmhouse table that spanned the length of the room.

“And you too, Selwyn,” she ordered.

Brienne watched with faint amusement at how obediently her stubborn father did as he was told. The glint in his eye told her that he knew full well how far he was under her thumb, but that it was a price he was willing to pay. Indeed, judging from the large, delicious portions of food and the friendly if mindless chatter that kept coming from Mrs Hill, she could see why. The house felt lived in, her father seemed happy, and she went to bed feeling a modicum of hope that this had been the right decision after all.

**London / Jaime**

Jaime breathed, knocked, entered. He resisted the urge to salute to the serious, stiff-spined man behind the desk who watched him cross the room and sit in the chair opposite him. His heart seemed to take in the doctor’s office – the books and unobtrusive paintings of flowers and landscapes, the atmosphere of studied expectation – and clench painfully hard. This was not how he did things; this was not his place, his method.

“Good morning, Mr Lannister,” said the doctor, his voice measured. His gaze continued to search over Jaime, his poker face giving nothing away. “I’m Doctor Luwin.” He was balding, grey hair cut short around his temples. His brow was furrowed and he had eyes that were small and dark but perceptive. A tweed jacket and neat red tie did nothing to take away from the impression that he was some country doctor used to dealing with an aging flock, rather than a renowned psychotherapist. Recommended by Tyrion, Doctor Luwin had had some experience of dealing with the particular vices of Lannister nature and nurture. He had sworn Tyrion to absolute secrecy. The last thing he needed was yet another pressure point, a raw patch of skin to be pinched by unkindness. 

Jaime shifted in his seat, arms crossed defensively. “I’m Captain Lannister or Jaime. Mr Lannister is my brother.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow at the sharpness of Jaime’s voice. Putting his pen down, he leant back and gave a sigh.

“Jaime, then. This is not a spell of punishment. You are coming here entirely of your own volition.”

Jaime managed to smile wryly despite his nerves. “That’s debatable.”

“Oh? Did someone frog march you in?”

“Near enough.”

“Well, this won’t work unless you are willing to cooperate.”

Jaime remembered Brienne’s voice, the struggle she’d had to put her thoughts to him delicately and with gentleness even as he terrified her. The doctor was also being diplomatic in his own professional way. Both could not be refused. He would not let an alien idea such as cooperation stand in his way.

“I understand.”

“Good. So, your injuries—” he glanced down at his notes, “amputation of lower right arm, bits of minor tissue damage elsewhere. All healed now physically, I hope?”

“Yes.”

“Your refusal of physiotherapy has been noted here. Prosthetics and such have been disregarded. Why so?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Can you explain further?” asked Luwin, but Jaime didn’t hear. All he could feel was the sand under his palms, the smell of sweat, the rush of blood in his ears as he crawled forward— it was hot, he wanted to go home, a man was dead. The others were hunkered down at some inconceivable distance, their shadows long on the ground. His movements seemed to take forever, a great effort being made with each inch gained. Then, there— glinting like a damned diamond— he breathed in sharply, knowing, _knowing_ that his arm would reach out, his gloved hand reaching for that metal object— _Fuck!_ He snapped out of it at the moment of explosion, his left hand immediately going to his injured arm, his fingers running over the scars as he sucked in heavy breaths.  

Luwin was standing beside him, a gentle hand on his shoulder when Jaime returned his attention to the present with all the concentration he could muster. “Sorry, doc,” he said as he looked down at his lap, trying to collect himself; trying to remember that he was safe and not about to be blown up. Remarkably he didn’t even feel embarrassed at his flashback, as he thought he might. In fact, relief was the overwhelming emotion. That wash of feelings was as powerful as any drug.

Luwin looked down at him, his face creasing sympathetically. “Same as your night terrors or different?”

Jaime hesitated slightly at the direct question.

“Interrogate your memory, if you can?” asked the doctor again, as he walked back to his own chair.

He tried to think, to not shudder from the images that appeared. “Less blood. More about the expectation, like I can’t stop myself from reaching for it even when I try to.”

“I see. Well, as I’m sure you understand, your mind is trying to resolve different elements of the accident into something logical when it clearly was not, and never could be. We repeat actions to practise something all the time, to figure out how things fit. You have to train your brain to see the facts for what they are— to bring light to shadow.”

Jaime nodded slowly. He was glad the doctor focused on the science of it, it made more sense – seemed more acceptable – that way.

“So, let’s go back a little. How would you describe your year generally?”

Jaime barked a laugh. A myriad of events fell quickly into one box or the other. “My best and worst.”

“Well, that _is_ a good start.” The doctor had a genuine warm smile which he used frequently. It was slightly disconcerting for Jaime considering the darkness of the topics being discussed. “It is always important to remember that just because you can never return to a world when the trauma—“ his eyes flickered to Jaime’s arm— “did not happen, where the order of the world was not undercut, that does not mean you cannot find happiness in the abnormal ever after.”

“The abnormal ever after?” repeated Jaime incredulously. _What a phrase!_  

“Or your new normal, if you like.”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

Luwin shrugged. “That’s my job. You know, soldiers like you—“

“Like I was.”

“Like you _are_ —“ he smiled again at Jaime— “tend to react better to direct, challenging queries. Now, where were we? Let’s go back to when you arrived in Afghanistan.”

The doctor continued to speak and ask questions for the rest of the session, to which Jaime gamely, if grimly answered. Eventually he said a stilted goodbye to Doctor Luwin and picked up his therapy schedule and prescriptions from the bored receptionist.

Deciding to walk home, he stepped out onto the anonymous, deserted London street. The hazy orb of the late morning sun gave the place an otherworldly look as if Jaime had woken up from a coma during which everyone else had disappeared. _Abnormal ever after indeed._ If his father could see him now, thought Jaime. Had he really just spent over an hour talking about his feelings? It was treasonous for Lannisters to even contemplate such actions, but as Jaime looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, he would be doing exactly that every day for three weeks.

Three weeks in London, without Brienne. He wondered how she was, now that she was back home. Selfish as it was, and he was no stranger to that sentiment, he wished she could have stayed, been here to give him that look that he missed the most – the anxious, gentle gaze with her slightly creased forehead that showed him he was cared about. He reached for his phone, grappling clumsily with it, the fingers on his left hand still nowhere near as dextrous as they had to be to attempt to text and walk. After nearly dropping the phone and stumbling over a kerb himself, he made himself sit down at a bench under a wide plane tree, its pale green leaves fluttering above, before trying again.

**Tarth / Brienne**

Brienne woke early in her old childhood bedroom, too tired from a night of disturbed, dream filled sleep to do much else than stare at the same cracks on the ceiling, the faded wallpaper with its innocuous prints of horses, the dusty toys and artefacts that had somehow survived her disappearance, ignorant of her growing up.  Now that the surge of warmth at her homecoming had petered out, she felt coolly out of sync with her surroundings. Even her bed, once a refuge, now just seemed lumpy and old. She shook her head at the feeling, forcing herself up and dressed and down to the quiet kitchen, the grey light of morning filling the room.

Taking her cup of tea with her, she took advantage of the early calm to wander through the castle. It had been the perfect size when she had had siblings and a mother to fill it. The long wooden corridors between wings were made into bowling alleys and racetracks and ice rinks, the endless rooms off the corridors turned into classrooms and tearooms and secret dens. Glancing into them now, there was a sad stillness to each, a formality that came from lack of use. Her father’s living room still hummed with life however, and she gazed at the customary mess and precarious piles of books with love. Old knick-knacks filled free spaces, drawings and paintings of family members lined the walls, just like they’d always done. As a child, she’d always done her homework there, read furiously there, just sat and watched her father work, anxious to be in sight and sound of her only parent. The islanders called her his shadow and she had accepted her role willingly, touched to be attached to the greatest man she had known. She stepped back out of the room, feeling liked she pried into a world that had somehow become parallel to hers, rather than the centre of it.

The house came to life around her – her father to his weekly round of farmers, accounting books tucked under his arm, Mrs Hill to the mainland for her day off –  and Brienne forced a smile at both when they passed, murmuring her replies to the usual questions of quality of sleep and breakfast. She’d slipped back into their lives with few ripples, she realised. Questions had been asked over last night’s dinner what she’d been up to, about her tour in Afghanistan, but she’d found that she just didn’t have the words or the energy to explain everything. She’d been allowed a brief reprieve after Mrs Hill gave her father a loaded glance that said: _give the girl time, don’t pressure her, she’ll come round_ and more, but it couldn’t last.

With little else to do with the house now empty, she settled into a chair in the kitchen and tried to read. She was having a difficult time of it. Between the elderly black Labrador, Arthur, who somehow still remembered who she was, snuffling at her legs, and her own, all too loud thoughts, she realised she’d re-read the same sentence about five times and still not understood what it had said. Her fingers flickered over her phone on the table. Only one o’clock? _No signal either._ She pushed it away with frustration. Her pulse sputtered for a moment at the thought of Jaime. It had only been a couple of days and already her patience was running on fumes. It was ridiculous to be so— so what? Reliant on him? To long to hear his voice, catch his gaze? The whole point of her coming to Tarth was to give her space to think away from Jaime, but now she couldn’t think of much else.

She put her hands to better use, stroking the dog until his tail wagged. Easy to make one of us happy then, she thought. Large, soft eyes looked up at her with an innocence that made her turn away with despair. The dog had been called after King Arthur of course. When she’d got him as a pup for her thirteenth birthday, she’d been fully obsessed with Arthurian legends and all the adventures they entailed, happy to spend hours in their honourable company rather than bear the hateful taunts of her school mates again.

Standing, she grabbed her phone and tucked it deep into a pocket of her jeans. Ducking into the boot room, she pulled on wellingtons, grabbed her ancient Barbour and whistled for the dog. “Come on then,” she murmured as she strode outside, only half-consciously knowing she was heading for the set of hills that she’d talked about with Jaime. There was a faint smir of rain, catching fine droplets on her hair and eyelashes. Last night, even this morning, Tarth had seemed faintly new, different after a fashion, as if she’d come across a picture that she had forgotten, its details smudged. But nothing had changed, not really, in the years in which she’d been gone. The windswept trees that lined the road to Evenfall Hall had grown even more skew-whiff perhaps, following the lee of the valley behind her. But the smells and the sounds remained the same. Salt. The screams of gulls. The constant wind.

It pained her to recognise the loss she felt at coming home. It had always been her place to escape to, to know and understand best when she couldn’t elsewhere. But each step taken, each old sight and view renewed, each sound and smell of her past just reminded her of how long she’d been away, how much she had changed, how odd it was to return to her childhood. Because that’s what it felt like; the passage over the sea stripping away the years and washing her up, supposedly unchanged, supposedly as innocent as ever. A lone child, a lonely child, a daughter of the isle caught and returned home. She wanted to come, didn’t she? To seek the peace that her muddled thoughts sought out thirstily, to breathe the salty air and soothe her frowns and bitten lips? Then why, why did she feel like stamping her foot, throwing her arms up and stubbornly refuse to move forward, to slip back easily, to accept this as her present?

In her darkest days, she remembered her old nanny’s voice about her place on Tarth. A bitter woman with misplaced Victorian values and a too honest a tongue for the soft hearted child Brienne had been, she had reminded Brienne once too often that she was not likely to find a husband, a career and that her life should be curtailed to Tarth, to doing her best to look after her father. The pressure had made her panic with claustrophobia. Shy to the point of muteness, she’d had no great wish to escape into the strange world, leave her island behind. But feeling her life crushed under nanny’s cold fist inch by inch, she had found her bristles, her spine and for the first time, pushed back against predictions. She’d begged her father to be sent to boarding school for sixth form, despite being sick at the thought of living with others, but more afraid of spending two more years at the school on the mainland, hearing the same bullies shouting as she boarded the boat home every afternoon. She’d had half a life elsewhere, grown taller than everyone again, stayed quiet and mostly friendless, joined the cadets, met Renly— and everything that followed. Her life was small, unoriginal. But it had led her here, a steady hand on the tiller, eyes on the horizon, as sure of its destination as she wasn’t. And yet, she felt a stranger still, as if experience had evolved herself fraction by fraction so that the moment she stepped back onto Tarth, it read her mind and noted her discontent, her sense of loneliness and misplacement and laughed at her.

Unsure and unhappy, Brienne stomped on and on through the summer bleached grass, sending sheep running and bleating from her. It was not meant to be like this, she repeated sullenly, lips twitching at the force of her thoughts, she had figured things out, hadn’t she? _Hadn’t she?_ The wind picked up as she rounded a bend, with a not so gentle bite to it that made her eyes water painfully. Rubbing at her face with a rough hand, she turned back, feeling cold and downright miserable. More than that, she felt numb and useless. Looking about for Arthur, she saw him halfway up a hill, nose down a rabbit hole. She set off after him, full of despair.

“Stop that,” she ordered, pulling at his collar. The dog whined and barked once at the lost rabbit, but obeyed her command. “Let’s go back and get warm,” she said, mollifying him.

Her phone buzzed, deep in a pocket. Too early for Jaime, she reasoned, as she dug for it with frozen fingers but something flared in her blood despite herself. Two bars of signal had brought life in from the outside. A text. Another buzz. Another text. _Jaime!_ Before she could even think about what to do next, the rain starting lashing down, sky turned thunderous grey. She looked down at the valley to Evenfall, water pouring down her face. At least an hour’s walk. Too far in this weather. Turning the other way, she half ran across the field, up and further up, to a copse of trees and to the old shepherds’ hut that she knew lay hidden in amidst the long grass. She had to duck halfway down to get in and sit with her legs curled up, but at least it was dry. Arthur followed her in, shaking off the droplets and snuffling the corners of the musty place, before lying down with a sigh.

Taking a breath, she dug the phone out again. She hadn’t been imagining it then, a hope turned into false visions. No, the brightly lit screen beamed its messages, strong and true. They hadn’t had a proper conversation since that night; already feeling a lifetime ago though only three days. She’d texted to say that her journey had been sorted and once again to say she was on the boat, but that was it. Factual, straightforward, unemotional missives. Jaime had responded swiftly enough to both, his acknowledgement sent but nothing more. Oddly, she hadn’t felt disappointed by the simple tone. Her mind had been distracted by organising her return, but she also realised that he was mirroring her manner, that he was standing by his word of giving her space and the freedom to think of a life when he wasn’t the centre of it.

She was grateful, but now— now she just missed him. It had come surging back with added force this first morning on Tarth, building and building each time she unconsciously turned to ask him something or looked for him and his smile. She blamed herself for each moment of old habit, for each time her heart dropped at his absence. Was she such a weak person to fall so easily into the trap, to feel half gone without him by her side? But then she’d been the one to panic under his touch, to squirm until she stood by herself again. Confusion burned through her mind, its smoke swirling round each thought she tried to think of as definite and sure until she didn’t know which way to face. The light from her mobile had offered her beacon of escape from the fog, at least briefly perhaps.

Swallowing her anxiety, she scrolled through to the first one, sent in the middle of the night.

_I know you wont get this now but i cant sleep. 1st session 2morrow am. Wish me luck wench. J x_

Her fingers squeezed tightly around the flimsy plastic. The rain drummed loudly on the tin roof above her, nearly drowning out her thoughts. _Nearly_. Thin lipped, she flicked to the next one.

_Officially a lannister in therapy! Hope tarth is alright and u r ok too. Speak soon. J x_

She forced a breath through gritted teeth. Something akin to a dagger pricked perilously close to her heart. She hesitated before understanding what her next move would be. Too early, too needy, but she didn’t care as she texted back.

**London / Jaime**

The doorbell rang. It sounded loudly and impatiently throughout the flat. Jaime groaned, annoyed at the interruption. He felt old and stiff as he got up, the day had been more exhausting than he realised. The doctor’s words still floated round his mind, catching him and dragging him down when his attention wandered.

“Tyrion, if you’ve forgotten your keys one more bloody time—“ he shouted, swinging open the door.

“Hello, Jaime.”

His gaze travelled up her legs, up to her confident face, professional hair, straight to her green, alluring eyes.  

He breathed out unevenly, his mind at once clamorous with shocked alarm and curiously inert, the warring symptoms of a form of panic, he supposed. “Cersei,” he responded after a second.  

She smiled at the sound of her name in his voice. She had dressed up; an outfit carefully put together to give glimpses of pale skin, rounded shapes of a body that he knew all too well. He forced himself to look away, but the bright memories were harder to push down.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He ground his jaw for a moment.

“If I must,” he muttered as he stepped away. As she passed him, he realised she was wearing the perfume she wore each time when they came together. As he breathed it in, he felt his cells come alive— it had promised so much for so long.

Cersei walked in, confidence ringing through each step. Jaime closed the door and leant against it, watching her look around, taking in the well-appointed surroundings. She hadn’t ever come round before, and yet here she was, trailing long fingers disdainfully over mahogany furniture. His new, weak defences stood bravely, but trembled.

“What do you want?” he asked fretfully.

She ignored him, speaking with sharp words over her shoulder. “How does the little monster afford such a place?”

“He works hard.”

“I work hard and all I get are hangers on and gold diggers.”

Jaime barked a laugh. “Ever thought that there is probably another reason for that?”

This time, his words hit their target. She turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “And what are you living off, being at home in the middle of the day?”

He raised an eyebrow and gave her an innocent look. “I have enough, don’t you worry.”

“I hear Tarth has a little money…” She smiled brightly. “Your giant pet not around?”

Jaime started forward, provoked out of his stupor. She was playing with him, like a bored cat swiping at tender spots, soft underbellies of caught prey.

“She has a name.”

She appeared to revel in his close, strained voice.

“Oh yes. I know who she is. What she has done.”

They stared at each other, matched in their fierceness. Her features came closer, almost out of focus. Jaime held his ground: it was important not to flinch, even though if he thrust his face any further forward, they might as well be kissing. “I had no idea,” he said, resolutely, “that you cared so much about Brienne.”

She scrunched up her face and growled her displeasure at his retort. “Brienne,” she repeated, rolling the word round her mouth like some particularly disgusting morsel of food.

Jaime cut in before Cersei could express her opinions further. “I don’t need to explain anything to you. I have made my decision,” he muttered, running a hand over his hair as he pulled back. It unsettled him greatly to feel Cersei’s determination to get him back; a wealth of strength made ready to see her will done at whatever cost.

Cersei snorted, trying to control the flicker of amusement that crept onto her lips as she made herself clear. “It’s an inexplicable decision. You must be blind or mad, or both.”

He shot her a cold look. “Neither. Now you’ve got the insults out of the way, is there something you actually wanted or is this purely a social call?”

Cersei walked into the living room and sat down with a dramatic sigh, leaving the question hanging. “I need a drink. Would you?”

Jaime clenched his fist in frustration, but followed her in and slung a measure of gin into a glass before he slumped down into an armchair opposite her. Siege warfare now, he thought, after the first shots had established a bloody stalemate.

“You look tired, Jaime.”

“I’m touched that you noticed.”

“I’m worried.”

“About me?”

“Of course about you. I always had to worry about you. You always were my business.”

Jaime watched her, trying to understand. To think it had been so easy before, to persuade himself he knew what Cersei was doing, feeling. Now, her actions and her words were untranslatable. He felt suddenly lost. She’d been his rock. He’d been hers. Whoever he was now, that had gone. It wasn’t regret, as such. Just a fact, cold and clear, scraping over newly healed wounds that he wasn’t prepared to reopen. .

“I’m fine, Cersei,” he said, wearily. “I haven’t disappeared; I’m not living on the streets. I’m just trying to figure out my life without everything that I had before.”

“You don’t sound convinced about it.”

“For God’s sake, I am an adult, Cersei,” he snapped. “Stop trying to control me.”

She laughed at that and he cursed himself for sounding so pitiful.

“I barely had to whisper your name before you came running, or have you conveniently forgotten?” she asked bitingly.

“What I couldn’t forget was your face when I came home, when you spotted what had happened. You were disgusted. So why the sudden change, Cersei? What was your plan? Close your eyes, pretend I wouldn’t notice your flinches should I touch you?”

She pursed her lips, clearly annoyed. But still she leant forward, hand reaching for his. “Come home with me. Just one evening and you’ll see what you’ve missed—”

In the moment it took for Jaime to think of a suitable put down, his phone buzzed manically on the table next to them. Where a name would normally flash, it spelt out _Wench_. Jaime went to pick it up, but Cersei got there first and quicker than he could have imagined darted from him and swiped a finger over the screen.

“Wench?! I suppose that makes a horrific kind of sense—“

He stepped towards her. “Cersei, I’m warning you – give it back!”

“Or what?” she cried, edging further backwards to the window at the far end of the room. The soft summer light seemed at odds with her spiky anger; the golden rays clashing with her blonde hair. “She sounds like a drip,” she said as read the text. “And terribly boring. Remember what I texted you all those nights when Robert lay snoring next to me?” She raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “Now _that_ was how to get someone’s attention – not this dribble—“

Jaime snatched it back awkwardly, shooting her a despairing look. “Fuck’s sake, Cersei—“

From what he could see, she hadn’t spotted the mentions of his psychotherapy further up. Her finding out would be unbearable. He absolutely did not need to give her more ammunition.

“You have the look of a guilty man about you, Jaime,” said Cersei, noticing the two spots of red that had appeared on his cheeks.

“Just trying to have a private life, Cersei,” he retorted. “And on that note, would you kindly bugger off?  If I didn’t make my position perfectly clear – on no account would I accept your offer of an evening together.” He let his antipathy mark each word darkly.

Cersei pulled a face, but then straightened and spoke quickly as if she knew her time was up. “Jaime, will you just listen to me for once in your life! As much as it pains me to say this, I need your help. Father is behaving horribly. He’s making me _prostitute_ myself to all these partners for the firm, using me as bait. I can’t stand it— I only want to be with you. And only you can stop him and save me!"

Jaime huffed his incredulity. “You know what Father thinks of me. How on earth could I do anything, really? S _orry Dad, I’m the only one allowed to fuck my sister so stop playing matchmaker?_ ” He raised an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of the image. “Even if I could ‘save you’—“ he studied her face. She was waiting for him, her mouth slightly agape and gaze searching. Her eyes were cool even in her distress— “I don’t think I would.” He waved the phone at her. “Now, I have a something more important to do.”

Seemingly shocked at Jaime’s final rejection, Cersei stared at him for a fraction of a second before her face turned into a sneer, her hands fisting in outrage. As she slid past him and stormed towards the hall, her words came bullet fast and ferocious. “And to think I believed you were different! Why is it that men – even _you,_ special precious Jaime– just want the same thing? All that aggression, your God-given power to rule the world and you waste it on stupid little things—” she laughed bitterly as she corrected herself, “— a stupid _big_ thing that means nothing. I demean _myself_ by coming here, to the land of outcasts, to the blackest sheep of the family, when all the while I knew, I _knew_ in my gut that the only person I could rely on was myself. Just like I always have… You’re not the same man who shared my bed. In fact, after today, after everything that has happened, I would hardly class you as a man at all – you can have your sad little life and save me the trouble of caring.”

Jaime watched her outburst with stony-faced endurance, only wincing when the door slammed behind her. It was not an entirely unexpected reaction; he had seen it when she hadn’t got her way before. This time however, it had the sense of an atom splitting irrevocably - a flash of angry white heat burning a break between them so completely that the two parts were never to join again. No longer their other halves or their doubles, their past was thrown into history with an almighty bang.

Drained, Jaime collapsed back into his chair. His arm was throbbing, reacting to the stress that filled the room with its sourness. He sat there motionless for a good while, trying to soothe the pain, before he remembered Brienne’s text.

_Earlier than planned, sorry, but is this a good time to call? Or whenever suits. B x_

Annoyed that he’d kept her waiting, he called her straightaway.

**Jaime / Brienne**

Brienne waited a long, _long_ time before the phone rang, abruptly and innocuously. Definitely persuaded that the text hadn’t got through or that Jaime was in fact already busy with something more important, she answered without a breath in her body.

“Brienne?” His voice, her name, shocked her, silenced her. “Are you there?”

Her heart beating far too quickly, she managed to squeeze out a _yes._

“Are you okay? What’s that noise?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m sitting in a hut with a tin roof, trying to escape the rain.”

Hearing her calm voice instantly relaxed Jaime. “I bet you’re wet through.”

Brienne blushed furiously at the drawl in his voice. She could just imagine the brightness of his eyes when he said that, and it wasn’t doing anything productive for her conversational skills. “No…ha… err… how are you? How did this morning go?”

“It went alright.”

“Just alright?”

“Brienne—“

“I’m just asking.”

He sighed. “I know. The chap seems to know what he’s doing. It’s just… it’s difficult. They’ve booked me in for three weeks.”

Brienne breathed deeply. _Three weeks?_ “Oh, I see…” _Such a long time!_ “I’m sure it’ll get easier, you know, the talking and working through it.”

Jaime groaned and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Ever the optimist, wench. They’ve given me some happy pills as well, which should be interesting. But to be honest, this phone call was the only thing keeping me going today.”

He had decided not to tell Brienne about Cersei’s visit. Something terrible flickered inside him at keeping a secret from Brienne, but as he reasoned with himself, to tell her would do her confidence absolutely no good at all. No, however he explained it; it would feel like Cersei’s grubby mitts had been all over this brand new thing he had with Brienne and he would not have that.

“Really?” she asked, her quiet voice crackling over the line.

“Christ, yes of course! Anyway, how’s Tarth? Doing you some good?”

Brienne shifted anxiously, her muscles cramped in the tight space. “Err… it’s early days. I feel a bit…” she trailed off.

“Go on.”

“It’s going to take a while to get used to be being back here, that’s all,” she rushed out.

“That’s understandable, wench. I wish I could be there with you.”

“Oh,” she said, the ache of guilt in her voice. “I-I knew I shouldn’t have left you in London.”

He grimaced at his clumsy phrase. “We’re both doing the right thing remember, so you bloody stay where you are. Or I’ll ring your father and get him to lock you in your room.”

“No, don’t!” she panicked.

Jaime sat up, chuckling. “Oh dear…you haven’t told him about me, have you? Charming!”

“It’s not that… it’s just that I haven’t found the right time—“

“Teasing, wench. Only teasing. Well, you better tell him about me before I turn up in a few weeks’ time,” he said, blithely.

He heard her gasp.

“What? You’re going to come here?”

“Don’t sound so shocked… of course I am. London is hell, and Tarth is where you are. Makes perfect sense, right?”

There was a heavy pause. He shouldn’t have suggested it so soon; a surprise might have been a better idea, but now that the cat was out of the bag, he really wanted to hear Brienne’s thoughts on the matter.

“Yes… I-I can’t wait,” she said eventually, eyes bright in the gloom. 


End file.
